The Truth in Empty Rooms
by Vanita
Summary: Sherlock wakes in the year 2020 with staples in his head and empty rooms in his mind palace. Everything's wrong with John and he can't remember why, but maybe he can fix it if he can convince John to take on "The Case of the Black Spaniel." Friendship/family/angst/humor/riddles/toddlers/fishing/horses & redemption. Amnesia!Sherlock & a complicated Johnlock. Post S3, updated weekly.
1. Nine Years

When looking back many months later, the first thing he remembered was the voices.

People would come in and out of the room, and some would look at him with big eyes and ask if he was awake, ask if he could hear them speaking. A voice would answer then — yes, they thought he could hear and probably understand what was going on around him, to a certain extent. He remembers someone reading to him for long stretches of time, a man's voice, one that was familiar to him. He was not sure if he opened his eyes, but he could feel people looking at him. He couldn't be sure. It all mixed with the vivid surreality of the Dream.

He could feel their hands on him sometimes, the warmth and the smooth pressure, and it was soothing. He was not alone. He could relax. He was not alone.

* * *

The next thing he remembered was suffocating.

He would come around just enough to realize there was a tube down his throat, and even though it was breathing for him, it was entirely too slow and he wasn't getting enough oxygen and he was suffocating. He would try to lift his hand to his face, but his arms were so heavy and everything hurt, his legs, his back, his head, and all he wanted was to turn over and pull out this infernal tube but he couldn't move. He could feel the panic rise in him as the monitors began to beep and whine, then someone would come and soothing hands and words would urge him to relax. Everything was going to be ok. He could feel the warm cottony drugs fill his body again as the barbiturates pulled him back under.

He vaguely wondered as he slipped back into the Dream if he would really mind drowning so much.

* * *

"I'm thirsty," he rasped. The sound of his voice startled him and he realized he'd been staring at the blue-and-white striped curtain next to his bed. He must be awake. He sloshed his head to the other side, but there was no one in the room and he blinked slowly. His skull felt like it was filled with pudding and his lungs like he'd been smoking cigarettes for days.

Mmmmm, a cigarette. His eyebrows creased as he wondered, and he tried to lick his lips. It must have been a long time since he'd had a cigarette.

His hand was up and poking around the back of his head, feeling a bandage of some sort there. Shaved hair on one side. Staples. Brain injury then. Probably surgery. He raised both hands up in front of his face and counted. Still had ten fingers. Small favors.

Someone walked in the room, a young ginger-haired man who was short but had large shoulders. Maybe a rugby player? No. Gay. Works out at the gym every day. Wouldn't play rugby, wouldn't risk hurting his body, particularly his brain.

"Did I hear you muttering in here?" Ginger said as he leaned over and looked at the monitors. He seemed to be satisfied and his eyes sparkled as he gave a huge smile.

"Yes, I said I'm thirsty."

"I bet you are," Ginger said and handed him a small paper cup with some ice chips. "Suck on these a bit and then we'll work up to water. It's good to hear you talking. I'll get the doctor in here to talk to you as soon as I can. She'll be glad to see you. As will your brother."

"Mycroft?"

"That's the chap. Although I'm not sure if I would really call him a chap, if you know what I mean. I always just call him 'sir' " Ginger said with a wink.

"Where's John?"

"Sorry?" Ginger said as he fussed with the bag hanging by his bed.

"Where's John?" he said again, a familiar feeling of impatience returning like an old friend. Judging from the atrophy of his muscles and the vague recollections of coming in and out of consciousness, he must have been in the hospital for days, if not weeks. John must have been a regular visitor by now, bothering the nurses and checking charts.

"I'm sorry, I don't know John, but I'll ask your brother, shall I?" Ginger said.

So even though he was in the hospital (normal) and appeared to have been injured (typical), the thought finally occurred to Sherlock that something was wrong.

* * *

Ginger didn't know anything important, of course. He was as vacuous as all the rest. Sherlock sucked on his ice chips like a toddler, and when the doctor came in 30 minutes later, Sherlock had worked up to a cup of water. The woman looked at him closely and pulled out a small light and shined it in his eyes.

"Well, it looks like there's a person in there after all. Hello, Sherlock. I'm Dr. Yussif. How are you feeling?" she said as she looked back and forth between his eyes.

"Bored," Sherlock rasped, and the doctor chuckled and leaned back. She grabbed his hand.

"Can you wiggle these for me?" she asked.

"All 20 of my digits are working sufficiently, doctor, thank you. It appears that whatever poking around you did inside my brain did not adversely affect my distal movement."

"Nor your cognitive function nor verbal skills, I see," she said with a smile that crinkled around her eyes. "I'm very glad to hear it." Yet despite Sherlock's slight huff of indignation, she continued to stroke the bottom of his feet with the end of her pen to check his reactions and poke at his toe nails and finger nails. When it appeared she was satisfied that his arms and legs worked, she sat down next to him and removed her glasses.

"Besides being bored, how do you feel?"

"Like I have a distinct lack of information."

"Oh?" Dr. Yussif said. "What would you like to know?"

Sherlock attempted to level her with a glare, but his head began to swim slightly so he ended up closing his eyes instead. He felt the doctor put her cool fingers to his wrist.

"What happened?" Sherlock said, feeling like his voice came through a tunnel.

"Let's work up to that, ok? You've only just woken and -"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"Doctor, I appreciate your concern and recognize the hard-wired tendency to treat your patients like children, but spare me the condescension," he said intensely. "I need information!"

Dr. Yussif sat back slightly and regarded him thoughtfully.

"Ok. Two weeks ago you suffered a cocaine-induced stroke after an overdose. Your landlady found you in your flat and called the ambulance. You were brought here and after we did a scan, it was determined you had bleeding on the brain that needed to be stopped. We operated on you for three hours and got the bleeding under control, but you didn't wake after the procedure and you were not breathing reliably. We had to intubate to help you breathe, but after six days you came out of the coma and were able to breathe on your own. You've mostly been sleeping since then, but this is the first time you seem to really be awake and coherent, so — I'm just glad you're talking and moving your digits."

Sherlock squinted at her, trying to make sense of this. He couldn't tell if he was having trouble thinking because of the brain injury or because the facts didn't add up. Cocaine? He had not used cocaine in years, not since John moved in. Why would he use cocaine? Which leads him to think…

"My landlady found me?"

"That's what I understand," the doctor said. "But I'm sure you can talk with her about it more when she comes by. She has come to visit you every day, I'm told."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson has been quite worried about you," came a voice from the doorway. Sherlock turned his head and there was Mycroft, looking smug as usual, although it was softened by a sincere look of relief on his face. But as Mycroft came into better focus, something wasn't right. Sherlock blinked, but it didn't help him to make sense of what he was seeing.

"What happened to your hair?" Sherlock said as he felt the world spin slightly.

The look of relief on Mycroft's face fell slightly and he sighed as he walked into the room.

"I see you have not lost any of your acerbic wit, my dear brother," he said as he sat wearily in the chair and folded his coat on his lap. "Cutting as always. What a relief."

"No, that's not... I mean why is your hair…" Sherlock said and then stopped as the conflicting evidence unfolded before him. He could feel the panic begin to creep into him and his heart rate elevate. He quickly peeked into his mind palace and found empty rooms and dead passageways. His doctor was beginning to look worried as it appeared Sherlock was becoming distressed, and she leaned down to look in his face.

"Sherlock, please try to be calm and just take a deep breath. Things may be confusing for you for a while until we know the full effects from your stroke. Just close your eyes and rest for a moment, all right? I'll be right back." She stood up and turned to Mycroft. "Can I speak with you for a moment outside?" she said and then walked out of the room.

Sherlock was relieved to watch them leave, for it gave him a moment to try to put the pieces together. Why was his mind moving so infuriatingly slow? He needed to focus. The fact was that Mycroft looked different. It was Mycroft, his brother, clearly, but he looked — old and fat. Or older and fatter, at least. His hair had receded noticeably and he seemed to have gained some weight and he had bags under his eyes. He looked as if he had aged 10 years from the last time Sherlock had seen him. But how could that…?

He squeezed his eyes shut. He had had a stroke. A brain trauma. What if he had serious damage? What if he had lost his ability to think coherently? What if he had finally pushed his body to the limit and fried his brain in a toxic chemical soup? What if ...

"Mycroft, where's John?" Sherlock all but shouted as his eyes snapped open and he peered through the open door where his brother and his doctor were talking in hushed tones. Mycroft turned with a flicker of annoyance on his face, but as he saw his brother lying in bed calling for his flatmate, Mycroft's eyes widened slightly in comprehension.

Oh, this was not good.

Sherlock closed his eyes again as he heard Mycroft and the doctor come back into the room and stand by his side. Maybe if he closed them tight enough Mycroft would simply go away and he could go back into that place where the Dream was. That long, strange dream where there was music and he was sailing on the open water and the darkness was full of mythical creatures and danger ….

"Sherlock…."

"Go away, Mycroft. Come back tomorrow. Or don't come back at all. I don't care," Sherlock mumbled without opening his eyes.

There was a weighted pause. He could feel his brother and his doctor looking at each other.

"Sherlock, what is the last thing you remember?" Mycroft asked softly, and the fact that his brother's voice seemed to indicate care and worry was enough to almost break him. The anxiety mounted and his head began to pound again.

"I don't know, what does it matter?"

"It matters a great deal, Sherlock. You've had a severe brain trauma and this is important. What do you remember?"

Sherlock did not want to be here. Did not want to do this. And they have not answered his question. This was intolerable.

"You will answer my question, Mycroft. Where is John? I will not talk with you further until you tell me where he is and why he isn't here right now."

He could hear his brother sigh, and Sherlock ventured to peek out under long, dark lashes. His brother looked worried. Unacceptable. But when he opened his mouth to start shouting again, his brother quickly cut him off.

"John is fine. He's in Paddington. I just talked with him this morning."

"Paddington? Why would he be there?"

Mycroft leveled him with a wary look, as if trying to assess if this was another of Sherlock's manipulative fits or if he was truly asking because he didn't know. He pressed his index fingers to his lips as if weighing his response.

"John lives there, Sherlock," Mycroft finally said carefully, and the two men watched each other for a moment in silence. "He's been there since he moved out of Baker Street, after Mary died. You know this. Don't you remember?"

It was at that point that the air seemed to leave the room, because no, in fact, Sherlock did not know that. He had no idea who Mary was, and as far as he was concerned, John should be in their flat making tea and wearing hideous sweaters and helping him with cases. That's what John did. That's what John always did. No, he didn't live in Paddington, he lived at 221b Baker Street!

As the sound of his voice faded, he realized he had yelled that out loud, and for perhaps the first time in Sherlock's life, he seemed to have stunned his brother into silence. Dr. Yussif was very carefully watching this exchange and rapidly making notes on her computer tablet. After a moment, she put down her pen and rested her hand on Sherlock's arm.

"Sherlock, what month do you think it is?" she said.

"Sherlock, what year do you think it is?" Mycroft added pointedly.

Sherlock looked between the two of them incredulously.

"Oh, don't be stupid. It's April two-thousand twenty," he said calmly, although his voice sounded a bit tinny in his ears. He watched as the relief washed over the two faces hovering over him. "I can tell from how much hair you've lost and those bags under your eyes. Also your jacket is a clear indication of the time of year outside. Also —" he tapped the doctor's wrist "— it says so on your wrist watch.

"But no," he continued with a small flourish of his hand, "that's not the real question, is it? No, the problem is I don't remember what happened between sometime in 2011 and now, the current day, April 4th in the year 2020. I suppose that's what you were getting at, wasn't it? Yes, well done."

Sherlock took in a deep breath and then sighed, looking out the window and letting the burden of truth settle in around him like a heavy blanket.

"It appears that I've lost nine years…."


	2. Veritas vos liberabit

It was another week before Sherlock left the hospital. He had had the good fortune of being in a coma during the acute stages of his withdrawal, but now he recognised the telltale effects of a waning addiction. While he was naturally insomniac, he found himself also unusually lethargic, and he suffered sudden attacks of anxiety. He would pace in his room and in the halls, alternating between hot and cold sweats, his limbs aching, until Ginger or someone like him would force him back into his room where he would stare at the parking lot.

He stole several phones — easy enough done, of course — in hopes of getting information. But to his supreme frustration, all of them were fingerprint locked, and while he thought this was a clever new mass application of technology, it prevented him from easily breaking into Ginger's phone. Eventually, the nurses were on to him and a note was posted on the white board outside his room: "Patient steals phones." That ended that.

At the beginning of the week, he kept expecting John to walk in the door. He would hear someone outside his room, and if the person paused even for a moment, he was convinced it was John. But the soft tenor of John's voice never came and he slowly came to realise it probably wouldn't. The steady rhythm of dark days and fluorescent nights breathed in and out of his hospital room like a slumbering monster, until a week had gone by and his doctor finally could not justify keeping him any longer.

Truth be told, Sherlock was reluctant to leave. From the window of the third floor of the private hospital, the world rotated in a predictable greyness. He stood and watched through blurred eyes as the rain outside washed a calming, steady flow down his window, just as the autonomic tears flowed steadily down his face, cleansing his body of a drug he does not remember taking. He felt tired, but no matter how long he lay curled up under the white bleached sheets of his bed, wiping his face and shivering, he could not rest.

Now it was morning again. Another grey morning. He was at the window when his brother came in. It had been a week since he had woken up.

Mycroft walked over to the corner chair and sat down. Sherlock didn't bother to look at him, for he knew what he was going to say.

"Are you ready?" Mycroft asked after a few silent moments.

"I'm not going to rehab, Mycroft. I don't need it. I have recovered from the acute withdrawal symptoms, and I do not remember the situations and habits that sent me into addiction. I don't remember my suppliers, where the drugs are located, what I was doing or who I was with. Besides…"

He turned to look at his brother.

"I won't stay if you put me there, so we might as well skip it."

Mycroft sighed and the muscles along his jaw twitched. Sherlock looked back out the window. He still was not accustomed to this future, with all its blank spaces, and when he looked at his brother, he could not avoid the evidence of absence staring him in the face. So he tried not to look at his brother.

"I anticipated as much," Mycroft said. "No matter. I've had 221b purged and you will not receive any unwanted visitors."

Mycroft stood and walked over to look out at the rain, shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock. They watched a woman with a red umbrella slowly walk out of the building to her car.

"Of course," he said quietly to the window, "you won't be able to leave by yourself for a while, Sherlock. We can't let this happen again."

Sherlock screwed up his mouth irritably but didn't object. It was fine. He didn't want to go outside anyway. He had a mystery to solve. He just hoped Mycroft hadn't messed with the evidence too much.

* * *

Sherlock stepped from the car and momentarily lost his balance as the world tipped sideways. Fortunately, Mycroft had already started for the front door so he didn't see, and Sherlock steadied himself, holding on to the black car door just long enough to take a deep breath and follow his brother inside the building. Old Mrs. Hudson, who had visited him every day in the hospital, was standing at the bottom of the steps with a soft and encouraging smile. Sherlock leaned down and gave her a quick peck on the cheek before he started up the stairs behind Mycroft.

He had been shaking slightly on the way home from the hospital, time skipping ahead every time he blinked, mini white outs that swallowed whole city blocks as they blurred past his window. But the familiar musty smell of 221b Baker Street spoke to his body in hushed brown tones and everything began to slow. As he walked up the stairs, his perceptions sharpened, his vision cleared and he began to notice every detail: the aged wallpaper, the scuffs and wear on the stairs, new nicks in the wood rail. By the time he reached the doorway at the top of the stairs and looked around the room….

... stack of philosophy books written in Greek … an almond smell in the empty jar on top of the fridge… "if you need me dear" … unfamiliar clothes folded in unfamiliar patterns … brown dust in the corner of the living room, must take samples… John's room, empty, recently cleaned… knife marks and bullet holes in the walls, most prominently in the living room… dark blue stain in floorboards under carpet in bedroom… Latin scribblings in the book margins: _veritas curat_, "The truth cures;" _minima maxima sun_t**, **"The smallest things are most important;" _nosce te ipsum_, "Know thyself" ...

But the truth is missing. The small things were missing. Missing papers, missing books, missing pillows, missing lamp, missing people...

"John, there are empty rooms."

He blinked and inhaled sharply at the sound of his own voice. He came to rushing awareness as if from a dream and realised he was standing in his living room alone. In fact, judging by the darkness outside, the stillness of the air and the dull hunger ache in his belly, he had probably been alone for hours.

He walked briskly to his desk and searched through a drawer, then strode to the mirror and began to write on the glass with an erasable pen:

"drug addict, bored, white male, mid-40s, no recent visitors, days or weeks without human contact, sometimes days or weeks when flat unoccupied, drugs obtained from multiple sources around London, some from Europe and the Middle East, increasingly wide range of disparate interests from music to literature, most recently philosophy, concurrent study of 18 languages, 14 hidden knives, 2 pistols, paranoia, narcissism, blood and bodily fluids in every room, scribbled writings often make apparent dissociative leaps between subjects, rapidly deteriorating thought process, loneliness and isolation".

Then in capital letters on the bottom he wrote in red marker: "MADNESS".

He stood back from the mirror, put his hands on his hips, and looked over his deductions. Yes. That was the suspect. Right there.

* * *

At some point late into that first night he realised he had given a cursory examination of all the evidence in the flat except the most important and most obvious at any crime scene: the body. He finally worked up the courage to stand in the bathroom and look in the mirror. He removed his clothes, took a deep breath and stood up straight.

This Sherlock was gaunt and pale, with deep circles under his piercing blue eyes. His forehead was creased with deepening age lines. His hair had receded some above his temples and there were grey hairs interspersed within the unruly mop on top of his head — the half that wasn't shaved, in any case. He removed the large bandage and turned his head to look closely at the staples which were still in his scalp on the left side of his head, holding together a C-shaped incision that went from his ear halfway up his head. He looked crazed, like Frankenstein's monster. The rest of his hair was longer than he liked it, tangled and dirty and unkempt. He had always been particularly proud of his hair, but now he was going to shave it all. Hair held evidence, so he would have to keep samples for diagnosis, but then he'd get rid of rest, remove all the toxins that his body had constructed into the long strands.

"Yes, best to start over," he said as he stood up straight again. "A clean slate, so to speak."

He moved on to the rest of his body. He had puncture wounds and scars all over. An old gunshot wound on his right chest. Lumps that indicated broken bones. Several knife scars. He had shot up in the most creative places as well, any place he could find a vein. Most of the healing wounds and scars were from the past six months, which corresponded with the decline in coherence in the ramblings he found in hand-written notes around the flat.

Then he turned around to examine his back, and there, between his shoulder blades, was a tattoo. He stared in surprise in the mirror, then he moved up as close as he could to examine the design. It was of a clef, a simple musical symbol, with brambles climbing up the sides and a banner below it that read _Veritas vos liberabit_.

"The truth shall set you free," he mumbled then shook himself slightly and rolled his eyes. "Really, Sherlock, you marked yourself like a common criminal — and with some sentimental Latin trope? How pedestrian."

And yet, he could not stop staring at it. It leapt off his pale skin and made his heart beat in a way that the scars and the grey hairs didn't. It was about the size of his fist, with strong, confident, clean lines. And it was located in the middle of his back, directly over both his spine and his heart.

This meant something — it had meant something, anyway. This was older than the drug use. He'd had this for several years. What would move him to mark his body in such a way? He had never considered getting a tattoo before. What was this about?

* * *

He showered carefully, re-bandaged his head and dressed in clean, comfortable clothes. He then took every book and writing in the flat and piled them on one side of the living room. He began going through each one looking for his own writing in the margins. He started a list of Latin phrases he found, and some themes appeared: Death, deception, loss.

_Nil desperandum_, "Never despair." _Conscientia mille testes_, "Conscience is as good as a thousand witnesses." _Credo ut intelligam_, "I believe so that I may understand." _Fallaces sunt rerum species_, "The appearances of things are deceptive." _Compos mentis_, "In control of the mind." _Ubi amor, ibi dolor_, "Where there is love, there is pain." _Cupio dissolvi_, "I desire to be dissolved."

One passage had a whole Latin aphorism from the ancient Greek writings of Hippocrates: _Vita brevis, ars longa, occasio praeceps, experimentum periculosum, iudicium difficile — _Life is short, art long, opportunity fleeting, experience perilous, decision difficult. And then there was a whole series on truth:_ Veritas curat_, "Truth cures." _Vincit omnia veritas_, "Truth conquers all." Etcetera, etcetera.

He sighed. It hadn't been research for a case he was working on with all this nonsense, of this he was certain. It must have been personal. As he was jotting down phrases on his growing list, he shook the pen in his hand.

Damn. Out of ink.

"John, could you pass me a pen?" he said as he tossed the empty one into the trash. He reached up without looking and caught the new pen and continued writing his list.

He noted book titles and page numbers when relevant. He noted the changes in his scrawling penmanship; it had always been variable, he could never settle on a particular handwriting style, and he knew it was probably the sign of an unstable mind. While he had never been bothered to think about it in the past, now it seemed relevant as it helped him deconstruct what he had been thinking and, god forbid, feeling at the time of writing.

He had already gone through two more books when it finally occurred to him. When the fact finally made it through the leaden density of his mind. He was in the middle of writing "_Admiratio_" when he stopped writing and stared at the pen.

He put down the pen. He closed the book. He stood up from his crosslegged position and straightened his robe, retying the strap.

Then he turned and looked into the kitchen, where John Watson was sitting at the table, watching him with his head resting on his hand.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He smiled, but then felt foolish. He moved to run his hands through his hair but then remembered the bandage and the staples and crossed his arms instead. John just sat there and looked at him curiously. Sherlock pursed his lips and then gave in.

"How long have you been here?"

John sat up straight and rubbed his face. Then he smiled.

"Well, long enough for you to go through that stack of books," he said and flicked his hand towards the tall stack closest to where Sherlock had been sitting. "Find anything interesting?"

Sherlock looked at his only friend for the first time since he woke in the hospital. Like Mycroft, John looked older, with noticeably lighter hair. But he looked … good. He looked healthy. Thin but fit. He had been somewhere with sunshine recently. His clothes were clean and pressed. His eyes were clear.

It was a stark contrast to the man Sherlock had become.

"Um…" Sherlock turned to the books. "Ah, yes. Latin. Apparently I was doing research for my tattoo."

"Tattoo?" John said with raised eyebrows.

"Yes…" Sherlock said tentatively. "I have one. Apparently."

"Oh." John looked mildly bemused, but then shrugged. "I guess things change."

"You didn't know, then? About the tattoo?"

John looked at him and frowned slightly.

"No, Sherlock. I would estimate that I know just about, oh, fuck all about you. Somewhere thereabouts."

Sherlock breathed out in frustration. He walked over to the kitchen table and sat down. John turned towards him and put his folded hands on the table. John was unreadable, his face a blank, his breathing even. Nothing but question marks.

"So," Sherlock started, unnerved but pressing forward. "I assume you know. What happened."

John nodded.

"I know what the doctors think. What your brother thinks. What Mrs. Hudson thinks."

Sherlock squinted his eyes at John. "What do they think?"

"You had a cocaine overdose. It caused a stroke that lead to brain surgery then a coma. You also tested positive for other drugs, including heroin, and they think you're going through withdrawal. You've been home for a day. Oh, and, uh…"

John looked at Sherlock and his eyelids lowered slightly, making him look annoyed.

"You claim you lost your memory and it's 2011."

"I never thought it was 2011," Sherlock said, mirroring John's annoyance.

"Oh. My apologies. Of course you would have deduced the current year. Even if you couldn't remember your name. Yes, well done."

Sherlock watched John carefully. It was clear that John did not believe a word of it.

"And what do you think?" he asked.

John laughed.

"Well, I think there's a 90 percent chance — no, more like an 85 percent chance, maybe 83 — that you had a drug overdose that ended up with a bleeding brain, and my confidence level is only that high because I actually saw your brain when they opened you up. And that would have been pretty hard to fake, I have to say. Quite a trick, even for Sherlock Holmes. But I think there's only about a 2 percent chance that you don't remember anything."

"Of course I remember things," Sherlock huffed. "I remember you, I remember our flat, I remember the cases and my burdensome childhood and the overwhelming boredom and the endless parade of tedious people who have insisted on bringing me their boring problems. Of course I remember all that."

Sherlock leaned back and folded his arms over his chest.

"It's just all the dull details of the past nine years that I can't remember," he said in what he hoped was a casual manner.

At that, John's lips flattened and he tilted his head slightly to look at Sherlock from under his eyebrows. For the first time, Sherlock could see the years weighing on John, as well as the first glimmers of a deep pain and anger.

"The dull details," John said quietly, and Sherlock's chest contracted slightly. John nodded. "Right."

Sherlock opened his mouth, suddenly unsure.

"John…" he started, but didn't know where to go. "John, I'm… I apologise. I wish I could remember, I do. But it's gone. The last thing I remember was that you were living here and we had cases and —"

"Huh," John said and sat back in his chair, his turn to mirror Sherlock's folded arms. "So, what are you apologising for, exactly?"

Sherlock tried to unravel the answer. Was he seeking forgiveness for taking the drugs? For not remembering? For ending up in the hospital? For doing whatever it was that broke their relationship? Because there's no doubt that things are broken and little doubt that whatever happened was likely his fault.

"I'm sorry for everything," Sherlock said, hoping this would cover all of his failings and misdeeds, remembered or not.

John smiled again, but this smile did not reach his eyes.

"Well, that's sweet, Sherlock. It really is," John said as he leaned over the table and looked Sherlock in the eye. "But it's not going to change anything, is it? It's not going to bring Mary back, is it? Because she's dead, and unlike you, who cheats and lies your way around death at every turn, she's not coming back."

John scraped his chair back from the table, pulled a thumb drive from his pocket, and set it down on the table.

"But just for the fun of it, I'll play along with your little charade. I compiled some things that you might not be able to find on the Internet. Maybe some of this will jog your memory."

And then John walked out the door and Sherlock was alone again.


	3. The Circus Killer

John exited the flat and took a deep breath. What was it about that man that pushed all his buttons, always had done? It took Sherlock all of 30 seconds to make John want to throttle him. It was a good thing that he had moved on. He didn't need the insanity in his life any more. He kept reminding himself of that.

He walked to the black car parked at the curb and got in the back seat. Mycroft indicated to the driver and the car started to move.

"Thank you, John," Mycroft said after a few moments. "I know what that cost you."

"No, you really don't, Mycroft. Because it didn't cost me a bit," John said with a smile. "You asked me to check in with him and say hello, and I did. I'm not sure why you care, but I'm happy to help."

Mycroft returned a less-than-sincere smirk.

"Ah yes. I forget how well you've moved on."

John just sighed. "Stop being such a shit, Mycroft. You know I don't believe any of this for a second."

But Mycroft just smiled politely. "What did you talk about?"

John thought about how to respond. For a second, he wondered what this would look like to Sherlock if this whole farce was actually true. Which it wasn't. But if it were, he supposed Mycroft would have looked a little more weary, a little softer than he did 10 years ago. It had been a hard three years on the British government, with the ongoing economic unrest, the immigration pressures and the now annual environmental disasters. All of the problems of 10 years ago seemed petty and inconsequential.

"We didn't really talk much. It took a while for Sherlock to even notice that I was there. But what did he say? Let's see — he's got a tattoo. He's been reading Latin or something. And he apologised. For everything."

"Did you tell him anything about his past?" Mycroft added, listening carefully.

"No, what would I say?"

"Did you talk about Mary?"

"Well, I told him that it was great for him to apologise but that wouldn't bring her back. What did you want me to say? Did you want me to reminisce about Moriarty, or how clever Sherlock was when he supposedly died the first time, or how he lied to me for years, or how he murdered Magnussen with my gun, or how he got my wife killed and then lied to me some more? No, for some reason I decided to skip all of those — what did he call them? — oh yes, the 'dull details.' You can tell him if you want to, or pretend to tell him, or whatever. This whole thing is crazy."

"Oh, I have no intention of telling Sherlock anything," Mycroft said quite seriously. "And I would appreciate it if you didn't tell him anything more than absolutely necessarily. You must understand, John. He's been … compromised. The less he remembers, the better."

John just sat there dumbfounded. For all outward appearances, it looked as if Mycroft was taking this entire thing seriously. John could not understand it.

"You of all people should know this is just another one of his tantrums," John said. "He's just trying to get attention."

"Hmmm…" Mycroft said, unfazed by John's ardor. "I'm not so sure…."

"How can you be serious?" John said, baffled. "How can you seriously think that he's lost his memory? The great Sherlock Holmes, the man who never dies, the man who gets everyone else killed but himself? He is the most skilled deceiver this country has ever known, and you think he just conveniently lost the last nine years? It's absolutely ridiculous."

"Yes, you're probably right," Mycroft said, looking out the window thoughtfully. "But why would he do it? And you saw him, John. You heard him."

Mycroft looked back at John, a slight accusation in his voice. "That's not the same person who went into surgery."

John could not refute that. The last time John had talked with him, Sherlock was hard and controlled, with no interest in anything but his work. He had become an icy-steel version of himself, honed to a knife's point. That was almost two years ago.

But this Sherlock was the same strange, awkward, funny man he had known back in the early days. Back before the lies, before the Fall, before Mary. Back when they were just two best friends caught up in it all, as if it were a game and they were going to win it purely on smarts, charm and blind luck.

He reminded himself that that was far, far behind him. Now he had a great teaching job at St. Mary's Hospital. He took normal vacations. He ate well and exercised and got plenty of sleep. His therapy had done wonders for him, once he finally found someone he could trust, someone he believed was beyond the reach of the Holmes brothers. It was true that he had no close friends, he still had trouble trusting people, and he hardly had any semblance of a social life. But he had finally come to terms with much of the past and had left all the dysfunction and lies behind him.

John rubbed his hands on his legs and turned away from Mycroft's accusatory stare. Maybe John was partly responsible for Sherlock's downward spiral, but he could hardly be blamed for it. He was only doing this one favor for Mycroft because he wanted him off his back, not because he felt guilty. And now he was done.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

* * *

John returned home and the next day carried on with his normal routines. But despite his insistence that he was finished with Sherlock Holmes, he was surprised and then a little disappointed that first one day and then another went by without any word from either Sherlock or Mycroft. John continued to go to work, steeled for the inevitable drama that was bound to make itself known sooner or later, but as the week went on, he began to wonder if the Holmes brothers were actually respecting his wishes and leaving him alone.

Several nights later, John lay in bed unable to sleep. He stared at the dark ceiling while a spring wind blew in gusts outside, the rain drumming a quiet, steady tattoo on the roof and the windows. It was a lonely, desolate sound.

He hated it. Despite everything he told himself, he hated the silence. He could feel the familiar pull of depression, the clouds of darkness that had filled the years when Sherlock was gone, the years before Mary and the years after he left Sherlock for the last time. He had fully admitted, even to his therapist, that he never felt so alive as when he was with Sherlock, and the thrill of adventure he brought to John's life was an addiction that he'd been working for nearly three years to overcome.

He had made two lists, back when he started this round of therapy. The first was of the all the costs and benefits in his life with Sherlock. By that point, he had lost so much that he could not see beyond the heavy costs, and when he looked at it in that way, the decision to leave was self-evident. He was simply done with the heartbreak and betrayal.

Recovery had been hard, but he knew it would be. He had made a second list of everything he wanted: Stability and a normal home life, to be mentally and emotionally healthy, to care for people, to stop the violence, to trust again. He had mostly found these things.

But.

It was as if the world was asleep. Life seemed to be stuck on pause when Sherlock wasn't around, even after all this time. There wasn't the thrill of the chase, the rush of adrenaline, the unexpected adventure at any moment, the sharp pain of knives and betrayal. It was as if everything was simply waiting.

But when Sherlock walked into a room, the world suddenly turned on. And more than that — all was revealed to be entirely different than what John believed. It was as if Sherlock saw the truth and everything John saw was a lie.

Over the years, John had started feeling the deeply irrational sensation that it was not that Sherlock uncovered corruption — John began to believe Sherlock created it merely with his presence. Murderers in every room, blackmailers in every email, bombers in every text. Assassins in every wife. And all of it was because of Sherlock.

John turned over in bed and punched his pillow. He reached into his side table and pulled out some sleeping pills. He closed the drawer, set them down on top of the table, laid his head down on the pillow and stared at them.

In the past year or so, John finally had the things he wanted, mostly, and he had nearly shaken that nagging feeling that it was all a facade, that without Sherlock's keen eye, it was all illusion. Since seeing Sherlock again, however, John often found himself holding a private argument in his head. The Sherlock in his mind insisted that John wanted the lies, that he insisted on them even, and over the years Sherlock had simply given John what he wanted. This haunted him. Was it true? Did John cultivate delusion? Was he equally complicit in all of the lies that Sherlock — and Mary — had presented as truths?

These were the thoughts that began to seep into John's consciousness and keep him up at night. He found himself increasingly listless, and although he told his counselor that he was having trouble sleeping, he didn't say why. He sat in her office and watched her take notes as he talked, but he wasn't sure what he was saying. He felt disconnected from his body, like an observer watching from a quiet room. He was probably talking about work, talking about the fact that he still wasn't dating, but he avoided the subject of Sherlock entirely. It was the first time that he had deliberately kept something from her, and he at least had enough self-awareness at this point to recognise the danger sign in this.

She prescribed him sleeping pills. So far all he'd done was stare at them. He reached out, opened the bottle and shook out two pills. He angrily swallowed them with some water and then threw the bottle back in the drawer. It felt like losing.

He and his therapist had agreed two years ago that he wouldn't see Sherlock again. This recent turn of events was exactly the kind of unbelievable thing that Sherlock was famous for — literally famous. John was sure that his counselor would point that out if she had the chance.

But still, he didn't tell her. He should have seen this was the first step along the edge of a slippery slope that ended right back in Sherlock's life again.

Instead, John slipped into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

A month later, something finally happened.

In his voicemail was a message from a reporter, wanting to get John Watson's comment on the latest case Sherlock Holmes had solved. John immediately deleted the message, as he did with all the calls from reporters over the years, but the next day he sat with his tablet and read the headline:

_Famous London Detective Back on the Beat_

_Andy Laidlaw/Published: 18 May 2020_

_Just when it appeared that famous detective Sherlock Holmes had retired for good, he's back at it with the capture of the man dubbed 'the circus killer.'_

_The crime that had stumped Scotland Yard for weeks was put to rest when Holmes caught the murderer of Alfred Ronder, the famous lion tamer. Murder charges were filed this morning against Leonardo De Luca, a former employee of Ronder._

_According to court papers, the crime at first was thought to have been committed by the circus' star, the famous lion Sahara King. But upon further investigation, it was determined by Scotland Yard to be foul play._

_The self-proclaimed 'consulting detective' was asked to investigate, and he claims that the murder was actually committed by De Luca, who was having an affair with Ronder's wife. De Luca, who was hospitalised after he was mauled by Sahara King at the time of Ronder's death, is charged with committing the murder using a club with spikes in it to make it look like lion claws. A hearing is set for the case on May 24.  
_

_Holmes, a bit of a mystery in his own right, seemed to be back in the swing of it with this new case. He had not been working in an official capacity for several years, since the death of a close friend at the hands of James Moriarty._

_The story of Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty is general knowledge and yet almost too strange to be true — both Moriarty and Holmes had been presumed dead after a fake murder/suicide in 2011, when Moriarty had faked a gunshot to the head and Holmes followed with his own death-defying feat of jumping off St. Bart's Hospital._

_Two years later, the courts cleared Holmes' name from the accusation that he had murdered Moriarty as well as falsified his nearly spotless crime-solving record. Soon thereafter Holmes reappeared, apparently having faked his own death, and Moriarty spectacularly announced his own resurrection on televisions across the country several months later. _

_The apparent arch-enemies were back at it. This time around, however, Holmes' sometimes partner and flatmate, Dr. John Watson, was caught in the crossfire, quite literally. Both he and his wife, Mary Watson, were shot, and Mary Watson and Moriarty were killed in the incident. After taking only a few cases after that, Holmes announced his retirement in 2017. The case of the circus killer is the first official case he has taken in three years.  
_

_When asked what brought him back to the crime-fighting business, Sherlock Holmes was his usual cryptic self._

_"It is time for me to return to what first inspired me and to regain some of the things I have lost," Holmes said._

_And will we see more of his 'return' in the upcoming months? Should the criminal underworld of London be trembling in their boots?_

_"Irrelevant" was all he said._

And there was the picture of Sherlock, wearing his damn deerstalker, his coat collar turned up, his eyes twinkling at the camera. John leaned in close and stared at it for a long time.

Then he smiled.


	4. Sherrinford

John was on his rounds when he got the text.

He was standing at the end of a bed of a young woman who was recovering from surgery, watching his intern ask questions and take notes on her chart, when he felt the buzz in his pocket. He pulled out the phone and read the text.

_Sherlock Holmes is in A&E_

At first he just stared at the text. Then he grit his teeth and put the phone back in his pocket.

"Frances, you've got this? I need to go down to emergency."

The intern looked up from her tablet and nodded. John turned to walk quickly down the hall and got about 10 steps before he started running.

Accidents and emergency. Of course that's where Sherlock would show up. What the hell has he gotten himself into this time?

As he rushed down the stairs, the images flashed in his mind: A drugged Sherlock, bruised and beat up, bloody with a stab wound or worse. A crushed Sherlock with the impact wounds of a great fall. A burned Sherlock after an exploded bomb or experiment. The creative ways that Sherlock could get himself maimed was endless.

By the time he had burst through the door to the emergency centre, he was braced for the worst. He passed swiftly by empty emergency room beds and was about to yell for the on-duty nurse when he heard Sherlock's unmistakable voice booming from around the corner. He rounded the turn, ready for whatever horror he was to find.

What he found was Sherlock standing in front of the formidable Nurse Matilda Masters, pointing down the hall and shouting. He wore a bright red scarf, a heavy blue sailor's jacket, a white wig and huge white, bushy eyebrows.

"... that man, Dost Akbar, is a suspect in a very important case," he was yelling at the nurse, "and if he dies of his wounds before I have the chance to interview him, you will have Scotland Yard to answer to!"

Matilda Masters was not the type who was easy to push around, however, and she put her hand on her ample hip and gave Sherlock one of her patented irritated looks.

"I don't care who you are. Unless you produce a badge and a court order, I'm not letting you in there."

Sherlock howled in frustration, and then dropped his voice to a low, menacing register and stared at Nurse Masters.

"I really don't care about the unfortunate situation with your brother, nor am I sympathetic to your distress over the latest affair of your girlfriend —"

"Oi!" John yelled as he started walking quickly down the hallway towards them.

"— which you just found out about this morning. But it is clear that these meaningless dramas are preventing your puny mind from understanding the simple fact —"

John approached the two of them, reached out with his arms and pushed Sherlock hard.

"— that your obstructionist rules are illogical."

Sherlock stopped growling as his attention finally came into focus on a very angry John Watson standing in front him.

"What. The hell. Do you think you're doing?" John said.

Sherlock's expression became slack, the pretense of anger dropping. He seemed taken off guard as he stared at John's face.

"I was ... trying to see my client."

"Your client?" John squinted his eyes and tilted his head.

"My suspect," Sherlock modified, holding his head up high.

John shook his head and put his hands on his hips. "So which is it, your client or your suspect?"

"All right, fine," Sherlock said, suddenly calm and quiet. "I can't tell you who he is, not …" he looked at Nurse Masters. "... not now. But I need to talk with him. It's of utmost importance."

John turned to the nurse.

"I apologise on behalf of Mr. Holmes, Nurse Masters. This is completely unacceptable. I will handle this."

He then reached out, grabbed Sherlock roughly by the arm and dragged him outside. It was a chilly evening and the sky was charcoal and starless. John's breath steamed as he released Sherlock's arm.

"What are you doing here, Sherlock, really?" John tried again, keeping his voice lower this time.

Sherlock rubbed his arm and then pulled down his sailor jacket.

"I'm afraid, John, that out of context my interest would seem … a bit not good."

"And I'm afraid, Sherlock, that's just not good enough. Tell me the truth. You are here just to get my attention, aren't you? Fine. Well done. Here I am. Now what do you want?"

Sherlock smirked and put his hands in his pockets.

"Not everything is about you, John," Sherlock said. "However, the irony is that this is, indeed, about you, but not in the way you think. I did not come here for you. I came here for Dost Akbar, who is possibly dying from wounds he sustained while trying to escape a group of men who wanted information about a considerable lost fortune…."

Sherlock trailed off and John waited. But instead of continuing, Sherlock turned away and looked out into the streets.

"Yes?" John said impatiently after a few moments, but when it appeared Sherlock was disinclined to continue, he just sighed. "And will you please take off those ridiculous eyebrows? You look like Denis Healey."

"Who?" Sherlock said, raising a huge fluffy white eyebrow inquisitively.

"Never mind," John said, and he smiled despite himself. He pointed at Sherlock's face, and Sherlock reluctantly removed the fake eyebrows, making him look slightly less absurd.

But then he also took off the white wig, and John was not prepared for the buzzed hair and prominent scar underneath. Apparently Sherlock had shaved his entire head, and now he had about a month's worth of dark growth. It made him look sick and thin and reminded John he was still recovering from surgery.

"I was in disguise," Sherlock said softly, looking at the wig in his hands.

"Obviously," John said.

They stood there in the cool evening and watched each other warily, suddenly aware as the moment expanded that they were together for the first time since John had left Baker Street a month ago. John thought of the information he had left on the thumb drive, and he cleared his throat. He really didn't want to talk about it right now; he was at work and he wasn't sure he was ready to discuss the contents. But it was impossible for him to leave Sherlock outside either.

Eventually it was John who spoke first.

"Well, regardless of why you're here, I can't let you in there, not while he's in surgery," John said and then shrugged. "But I can get some more information and let you know when he's conscious."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll wait."

John bit his cheek and checked his watch.

"Ok, well, um. If you want to sit and wait, I can get an update on Akbar and continue on my rounds and … check in with you a little later?"

Sherlock merely nodded and then strode imperiously into the waiting room and sat down, staring straight ahead. John went to speak quietly to Nurse Masters.

"Sorry 'bout that. If he makes any trouble at all, you let me know."

The nurse smiled and squeezed John's elbow.

"You bet, love. No worries. I can handle the likes of him."

John laughed. "Oh I know you can. I'll be back in about 20 minutes."

* * *

It was one of the strangest rounds Dr. John Watson had made in years.

As he headed back upstairs, a smile blossomed on his face and would not dislodge. For the next half hour, it was as if he could see the pulse of life run through the hospital, flowing through the hallways and providing nutrients and healing powers to every room. The doctors and nurses were the red and white blood cells, bringing oxygen and medicine and comfort to the people in their beds, water and light and hope. And each person he saw smiled back at him, infected by his glow.

He knew it was crazy. He knew he had to push this deep down, but he could not help himself. He could at least wait until the end of his rounds, right? For half an hour he could fill his mind and body with the sweetness of hope and the rushing stream of ….

He shook his head and greeted his last patient, a 74-year-old man recovering from a bad fall.

"Hello, Mr. Crenshaw, how are you feeling?" he said as he slid his finger along his tablet, scrolling down the hospital's chart.

"Oh, I'm alright. But maybe if I take whatever you're taking, I'll feel better," he said and wiggled his eyebrows.

John just laughed and continued his assessment. He took a few notes as he talked with Mr. Crenshaw, then closed down his tablet and went to his office. He changed jackets, closed and locked his office, and walked back downstairs to check in on the status of Dost Akbar.

Akbar had been stabbed in four places and had lost a lot of blood, but he was recovering from surgery and would be moved into a room soon. The anaesthesia would take a while to wear off, however, so it would be an hour or two before he was coherent. John had the nurse take note to text him when it looked like Mr. Akbar was coming around.

John walked back into the waiting room and he found Sherlock stretched out on a bench in the corner, his hands folded across his chest, looking like he was asleep. John could tell better, however, and sat down in the chair across from him and waited.

He didn't mind sitting for a second and watching his old friend. It would give him a chance to rein in his emotions, just as he had held them back the last time he'd seen Sherlock. After nearly a week of cajoling from Mycroft, John had finally acquiesced to visit Sherlock at his apartment after the surgery. But first he made a video and loaded it and several others onto a thumb drive. If this was a call for help from Sherlock — which was the best case scenario — then out of respect for their past, he would do what he could to help.

He didn't want to believe it, though. He didn't dare to risk hope that Sherlock might actually be trying to turn his life around, but if this bizarre ruse of memory loss was an attempt to get away from the drug abuse and the cold-blooded violence, then maybe….

He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. Such a slippery slope, hope was. It lead down, down to false forgiveness and deception, back into the warmth of dysfunction and adrenaline, back to old addictions. But damn him if there wasn't happiness in there too.

He raised his head and found Sherlock's blue eyes staring at him.

"Ah, you're awake," John pretended.

"I wasn't asleep," Sherlock said.

John just smiled and nodded. After a beat, he checked his watch.

"Dost Akbar won't be awake enough to talk for another couple of hours."

"I see," Sherlock said and then faced the ceiling and closed his eyes again.

"I think the Union Shop is still open," John said tentatively, "if you want to… get a cup of coffee."

Sherlock turned his head and looked at him again silently, then he stood up and held his arm out for John to lead the way. They made their way to the nearly empty coffee shop and John bought them both cups of black coffee. As they sat at a table, the night settled around them. Even though it had been years since they spent any time together, the comfort of an old friendship is hard to shake off, and John was used to them looking at each other in silence.

But Sherlock seemed to become unsettled, and he looked away and spoke to the window next to him.

"Thank you for the files. I found them most … illuminating."

John raised his eyebrows.

"Did you? What was it you found most interesting?"

"I…." He took a sip of his coffee, stalling to find the words. "I enjoyed seeing your daughter. She looks like a lovely girl."

"Ah yes. She is lovely. And clever. Like her mother."

Sherlock looked up at him then.

"Her name is Sherri?"

"Yes," John said carefully, his eyebrows coming together as he eyed Sherlock sideways.

"Is Sherri short for something?"

"Sherrinford."

"Sherrinford?" Sherlock said with surprise.

"Yes, but you know this, Sherlock. You were there when we named her," John said with exasperation. He looked at the blank expression on Sherlock's face and then threw up his hands.

"Fine. As you know, she was attached to the name but I have no idea what she was thinking," John said. "Sherrinford Morstan Watson. Quite a mouthful, but…" John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "But you always called her Sherri, so the nickname kind of stuck."

Sherlock just stared, his face expressionless. The only motions were his irises contracting and his barely perceptible breathing. John sat back and watched and waited. It was usually best to give Sherlock room to work through these little glitches, when emotional confusion sent his brain into an infinity loop — although sometimes it was difficult when Sherlock had entire conversations without giving John the benefit of participating in them.

Despite himself, he suddenly remembered when he had asked Sherlock to be his best man. Sherlock had stood there in silence and claimed later they had had an entire conversation. John shook his head and gave a small amused huff at the memory.

The sound seemed to shake Sherlock out of his reverie.

"... must have been living…"

John took in a breath again as his heart squeezed in his chest.

"Pardon?"

"You never said on your blog. That we were… that I was… living with you and your daughter."

John looked down at his coffee and tried to compose himself. He nodded and then shook his head. This ruse of Sherlock's was surprisingly solid, a well-constructed deception. Sherlock smoothly moved in and out of things he should and shouldn't know, and it was absurd that John was enabling this. But he supposed this was what he did. John humoured Sherlock, and they always did it Sherlock's way.

Although, now that he thought about it...

"My blog? I thought I took that down," John said.

"Oh, you did, but I found a copy of course. Nothing truly disappears from the Internet. So I knew you had a daughter, and I knew you had moved back to Baker Street, but I didn't quite realise…"

"...that I took my daughter with me? Uh, yes, Sherlock, that's what happens. Parents tend to take their children with them when they move. We lived with you for more than a year."

Sherlock nodded and looked disturbed, as if trying to comprehend. "I helped you with your daughter."

"You and Sherri were quite attached to each other, actually. And she still misses you, by the way. In case you're wondering."

"She misses me."

"Yes, Sherlock. Of course she does."

This was beginning to get ridiculous and exhausting. John checked his watch again. He was going to have to leave in a few minutes. He was expected home soon after 10 p.m.

"Can I meet her?" Sherlock said, and John raised his head in alarm.

"No, you can't see her. I haven't changed my mind, Sherlock, no matter what kind of game you're playing at," John said, his nostrils flaring. "Nothing has changed."

"Except that you and I are having coffee. It's my understanding that you haven't talked with me in two years. Why the sudden change of heart?"

John leaned back in the chair and glared at Sherlock. He hated that Sherlock could zero in so effectively on the things John was trying to hide. But he decided to go with it and be honest.

"Ok, I'll admit, regardless of the fact that you are lying — and nothing you say can change my mind about that — you have changed. I'm hoping that maybe you actually want to turn your life around this time. You've been ruining yourself, Sherlock. You have been for years. You've made one bad decision after another. But despite the fact that I really do want you to make your life better, I can't be a part of it any more. Sherri can't be a part of it."

Then he leaned forward and looked Sherlock straight in the eye, holding it steady as he spoke quietly.

"But if you're really trying to get back to a time before all the drugs and lies and murder, I… want to support you in that."

"Take a case with me," Sherlock responded.

John just sat there with his mouth open.

"Have you not heard a single word I just said?"

"Yes, I did. You want me to be healthy. Take a case with me, John. Just one last case. And then I'm going to retire."

John laughed and threw up his arms.

"You already retired, you crazy man. Remember? It was called joining MI-6 and becoming a hit man and a drug addict. No, thank you. I'm not interested."

"No, John," Sherlock suddenly became intense and earnest. He reached forward and grabbed John's hand, refusing to let go.

"I can see why you did it. Why you left. You wanted to protect your daughter. I still have not fully deduced why it took you a year after Mary's death to decide that, why you moved in and then moved out again. There are so many threads to follow. But you must know that I have no interest in returning to the lifestyle that landed me in this predicament.

"John," Sherlock said, and drew John's hand in closer. John's face tightened in defense of whatever Sherlock was trying to do.

"John, I know you have lost a great deal. You lost two of the three people you cared for most in this world, but please. Help me in this. One more case, and then I will retire to the country."

He let go of John's hand and looked out the window again.

"I have resolved to buy a cottage and grow apples."

John's face screwed up, not knowing if he should laugh or cry. He could never guess what was going to come out of Sherlock's mouth.

"Apples? But what about bees?"

"Bees? Why would I want to raise bees?"

"Because you've wanted to since you were a little boy, since you discovered the wild honey on your aunt's farm."

Sherlock tilted his head. "I've never told anyone about the wild honey."

"You've told me all kinds of things, Sherlock," John said, suddenly blushing and going silent.

Sherlock just studied him, his eyes slightly squinted. John could tell he was deducing, looking at John's eyes, his hair, the way he breathed. John decided that was enough for the night. He stood up and put on his jacket.

"I need to get home. Marie is expecting me."

Sherlock simply nodded and continued to watch John carefully. John shook his head and turned to leave. But as he was walking through the doors into the nighttime air, he heard Sherlock call out to him.

"One last case is all I ask."


	5. Red Herring and Other Fish

Sherlock's texts started almost immediately. John woke the next morning to seven waiting for him on his phone, and that was just the beginning.

_Akbar was stabbed four times with a serrated knife. Nasty wounds. Surgeon did adequate job sewing him up. SH_

_Why did that curry place we liked close? Nonsensical. SH_

_The brown dust in the corner turned out to be powdered blood, of course. Working on DNA analysis. SH_

_Your wedding looks lovely. Nice choice of colours. SH_

_Oh, I see I chose the colours. SH_

_And the location. SH_

_And the invitation list. SH_

_I hope David behaved himself at the wedding. I may have to follow up. SH_

_Mrs. Hudson bought biscuits and tea. I made you a cup. SH_

_That almond smell was, indeed, cyanide. Looks like I had quite the collection of poisons. How delightful. SH_

_Unfortunately, Mycroft got rid of it along with almost everything else interesting in the flat. He's such a bore. SH_

_I was still able to find the knives though. Perhaps he didn't think them important. SH_

_Oh, it looks like the curry place had a fire. Arson. The owners did it. SH_

_Finding it difficult to closely examine tattoo. May need assistance. SH_

_Having Chinese takeaway. I bought enough for 2.6 average adults. SH_

_I am pleased with my new phone. They fixed the autocorrect problem. Much easier. SH_

_Oh I can text by voice. Very useful. SH_

_I can watch you on the Google Earth app. Unnecessary but also useful. SH_

And on and on for days afterward. John never replied, but he found himself smiling and shaking his head, waiting for new texts, wondering what would come next, wondering at the pangs he felt in his chest as Sherlock uncovered the past.

Then, about four days into the constant stream-of-consciousness, he got one final text.

_New case. Need your help. Come if convenient. SH_

John was walking to work when he stopped on the pavement and stared at the text. His shoulders slumped and he groaned as he put the phone back in his pocket. Why hadn't he blocked Sherlock again? Three years ago when John had moved out, he had changed his number. When Sherlock found it again a mere 20 minutes later, John blocked the texts, deleted his blog, stopped using email and did whatever he could to remove the ability for Sherlock to contact him easily. He had been one step away from a no-contact order from the courts when Sherlock disappeared.

But after he visited Sherlock post-surgery, he found himself unblocking his phone. He realised now he had done it without even thinking, so when he first starting getting Sherlock's texts, he was surprised.

Sometimes he hated his subconscious. It was up to something, and whatever it was was certainly no good. He vowed to ignore Sherlock and block his texts again.

Later. He would block them later. After his shift.

But there was really no need because Sherlock didn't text again. It was increasingly irritating. By late afternoon, John found himself checking his phone every 10 minutes. It had been a long day and he was behind on his paperwork, as usual, but he was finding it nearly impossible to focus. As he sat in his office and stared at the papers on his desk, he had this sudden vision of the pile slipping off his desk and burying him alive, slicing him with a million tiny paper cuts until he slowly bled to death while suffocating under the pile on the floor, eyes glazed over.

He sprang out of his seat, grabbed his coat and rushed to the front of the hospital. He jumped into the back of a cab sitting at the curb.

"Baker Street."

He quickly texted Marie that he would be a late to dinner, and she texted back that it was fine. He put his phone into his pocket and watched the city pass. It took a full minute before it finally caught up with him what he was doing and he shook his head.

"This is it," he said to himself. "I've finally gone bloody barmy."

He started giggling like a little boy, and once it started, the bubbling joy that he had been trying to keep down began to flow to the surface. He was suddenly holding his belly and trying not to spill into hysterics. He felt tears begin to well in his eyes, and he rolled down the window and stuck out his hand, feeling the cool evening air send jolts through his body. He pulled in his hand and put it to his face, trying to cool himself down. The joy was heartbreaking, and he let the waves crash over him.

By the time he reached Baker Street, he had calmed down. He had wiped away the tears, properly re-corked the _joie de vivre_ and locked it all away, hoping it would stay out of sight long enough to get through the next hour.

Here was the plan: play the cool cucumber as well as he could and tell Sherlock that he couldn't work with him any more. Those days were over.

If that didn't work, the secondary plan was to calmly listen to what Sherlock had to say and try to act like an adult and just think about it.

The tertiary plan was to do whatever Sherlock asked because John was an utterly pathetic, spineless adrenaline junky who was about to get a fix and fuck it.

He took a deep breath and got out of the cab. Time to face the music.

* * *

Sherlock watched John step out of the cab and look at the building. He watched as John fixed a firm expression on his face, as he stood up straight, as he started for the front door. Sherlock dropped the curtain and walked back into the kitchen.

He put on his goggles and fired up his blow torch. He dropped the small smile that was lingering on his face and affected a scowl as he began to burn the hairs off a dead rat.

John walked in through the door and immediately began to wave his hand back and forth in front of his face.

"Jesus, Sherlock, the smell!" John exclaimed and then rushed to the window and threw it open. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Ah. You're here. Excellent," Sherlock said as he turned off the blow torch. Holding its tail, he swung the rat back and forth like a censer; the rat smoldered solemnly. "I was attempting to see how much flame must be applied to a three-days-dead rat before it caught on fire. It's for a case."

"Well it bloody stinks," John said as he stood by the window, waving his arm around and trying to get some clean air.

"No matter," Sherlock said as he dropped the rat into a bowl of water. He took off his apron, gloves and goggles. "Have you eaten? I was about to go out. I'm starved."

John just raised his eyebrows.

"You're… um," John looked around the flat then back to Sherlock. "Yeah ok. We could go —"

"I know just the place," Sherlock said and grabbed his jacket. He walked over to John and started to push him out the door.

Once they were onto the street, Sherlock ushered John along while John shot him puzzled looks over his shoulder. They walked a few blocks in silence, and then Sherlock turned abruptly into a sushi restaurant. He went directly to a table in the corner near the darkened windows, and when he looked up, he could see John still standing on the pavement looking at the front door. For a moment it looked as though John was going to turn around and bolt, but then he put his head down and pushed through the door as if it took a great effort, like an oxen pulling a heavy plow.

He sat down heavily across from Sherlock. He did not look pleased.

"Why here?" John said.

Sherlock opened his mouth, on the tip of his tongue a quick lie about how it was recommended by some phone app or another, when he stopped and closed it again. This was his chance. This was perhaps his only chance. He had to give it his best.

"I understand this was Sherri's favorite restaurant when she was living on Baker Street. She always ordered the salmon and rice."

John just stared at him.

"Which I'm grateful for because the tuna is actually escolar," Sherlock continued, starting to feel awkward. He looked down at the menu.

"Which is not very good for her," Sherlock finished quietly.

"Yes, I know. You reminded us every time we came here."

"Oh."

"Even though I'm the one who told you that."

"You did?" Sherlock said, looking up at John again. "That was very informed of you."

"Well, I am a doctor, in case you have forgotten that as well," John said and then looked at Sherlock holding his menu. To Sherlock's relief, John seemed to settle into his chair and accept the fact that they were eating at this particular restaurant — one point for Sherlock — and yet he continued to look at Sherlock oddly.

"What?" Sherlock said, wondering if he had done something else wrong.

"Why are you looking at the menu? You always get the same thing," John said as he watched Sherlock.

"I…" Sherlock looked at the words on the menu and then began to feel dizzy "...always.…"

The thought suddenly occurred to him that he had eaten at this restaurant many times before and couldn't remember. That fact had somehow slipped from his calculations. He had picked this restaurant because his research had indicated it was special to John and his daughter, and presumably the three of them together, and he wanted to remind John of the past. John could not help himself but to emit important information when he was emotionally charged. His face became more expressive, he said unintentionally enlightening things, and he provided evidence that Sherlock needed to fill in the blanks.

But mostly Sherlock wanted John to be somewhere they had been together, somewhere more neutral than the flat but still pleasantly familiar. He had taken a risk by picking this restaurant, but it was a calculated one. The one factor he had failed to provide in his equation was any possible effects the location would have on him, however.

He dropped his menu on the table and closed his eyes as he rested his forehead on his hands, just for a few moments. At that moment, the waitress brought two glasses of water to the table, set them down and asked if they were ready to order. John asked her to come back in a minute.

"You alright?" John said after she had walked away. He reached over to take Sherlock's pulse.

"I'm fine. Sometimes I get vertigo," Sherlock said and then put his head up again. It was still swimming, but when he pulled his hand away from John and took a drink of water, it started to clear.

"How often does that happen?" John said, looking concerned.

"Don't worry yourself too much, doctor," Sherlock said as he put down the glass. "I've talked with my surgeon about it and she advises there's a high probability it will pass in the next several weeks."

"Have you had any other symptoms? Seizures, speech problems, poor balance?"

Sherlock could feel himself wanting to resist the interrogation, an automatic denial on his lips. This wasn't what they were supposed to be talking about. He was supposed to be smoothly wooing John to go on this case, not having dizzy spells. But he remembered his new modus operandi and took a deep breath.

"I have not had any seizures, but I've experienced some aphasia and occasionally I've had some problems standing and walking." He refused to look at John as he said it. It made him feel like an invalid to say such things. He waited for the sickening pity or the condescending reassurance from the doctor.

"Well, that was… forthright," John said, sounding puzzled. "You sure you're up to this? We could always go home."

Sherlock looked at him then and raised an eyebrow pointedly.

"I mean back to your flat," John said, annoyed. "You know what I mean."

"No, I think perhaps the burnt hair smell might not help the dizziness issue."

John laughed. "You did that just for my benefit, didn't you? The rat?"

"Yes, I did," Sherlock said automatically.

John huffed again amusedly and then looked at Sherlock a little closer. He was about to say something when the waitress came over to their table to take their order. Sherlock picked up the menu again and was trying to focus on the words when John started ordering.

"He'll have the duck and rice potsu and I'll have the salmon supreme," John said and then took the menu out of Sherlock's hands and gave it to the waitress. "And we'll have a large hot sake as well. I think I'll need it."

John smiled pleasantly at the waitress, and she walked away with the order.

"So," John started, turning back to Sherlock. "Why am I here?"

This was better. The case. Excellent.

"I need you to come with me to Berkshire," Sherlock said. "We're going angling."

"Angling," John said and then nodded as if he had guessed this was the case. "Are we looking for a cold fish?" He started to chuckle.

"Most fish are cold, John."

"Oh, not all of them. Some are just red herrings."

John was obviously amusing himself with whatever nonsense he was speaking, because he was now looking around the restaurant and full-on giggling.

"Do herring grow in lakes?" Sherlock said, not fully understanding but trying to follow. "I don't know. I don't care. I suppose we should find out if we are to be in disguise. Is it bass? Ridiculous sport, fishing. All the sitting and waiting. Dull."

"Then why are we doing it?"

"Because we don't have a horse."

"Naturally," John said and nodded some more.

"Although I suppose we could get one."

"Why not?"

The sake came, and John quickly poured himself a small cup of the hot wine and then slammed it back and poured himself another one.

"Hey, Sherlock, why are fish such intelligent creatures?"

"They're not," Sherlock responded as he watched John drink his second cup.

"Because they swim in schools," John said, chuckling as he drank his third cup of sake. "Ok, I have another question for you. How did you know about the escolar if you didn't remember I had told you about it?"

"Research, of course."

"Ah. What kind of research?"

"The mundane kind," Sherlock said. "I looked up credit card receipts. Although…"

Sherlock picked up his water and took a sip. He realised now how his earlier tuna comment was a slip, and he wasn't prepared to talk about this, but he continued on.

"I also mentioned something about it in my journal."

John looked at him in surprise.

"You have a journal? I've never seen you journaling. You always seemed to think it was too sentimental."

"This is not a typical journal, John. Nothing so tedious as your blog, for example."

John huffed.

"I have an archive buried in the Internet," Sherlock continued. "It's a collection of files from over the years, starting in 2009. One of the documents was an ongoing collection of notes, mostly from cases, but occasionally I included more personal items. When I accessed it again recently, it appears I continued to keep it up until about a year ago."

Sherlock stopped there, because in truth, it was an extensive collection of personal information, much more than he would ever admit to anyone. The discovery of its contents re-filled entire wings of his mind palace, if only in sketches and pastels and not the vivid colour of true memory. Of course, if John insisted, Sherlock would let him see any and all of the documents, but parts would be mortifying in their admittance of apparent affection — lists of birthdays and likes and dislikes of John and Sherri, for example — and he hoped John wouldn't ask.

Even though it was useful, the information was almost completely devoid of context, however — mostly reminders without any analysis, so he had to extrapolate their meanings. This was the most frustrating part: understanding the lists of random data without having the situational context. This is what he needed most from John.

Understanding.

"Does Mycroft know about this?" John asked.

"No, and I have no intentions of telling him. Mycroft seems to think I've become a defective unit and I should be minimised as much as possible. No, I'm certain that no one else knows about the files, except now I've told you."

John nodded and took a deep breath as he absorbed this new information.

"So, there's personal information in there?"

"Yes."

"About … about your personal life?" John asked.

Sherlock held John's eyes for several moments.

"Yes."

John's neck began to turn pink and he looked at his hands. He scratched his head and then looked around the room. Fascinating. This was nearly the same reaction that he had when they discussed the honey. Honey was on one of the lists about John, but it was out of context. Connections began to catch like wildfire in his brain.

The food came, much to John's obvious relief, and they began to eat in silence. Sherlock immediately became distracted by his meal, because to his pleasant surprise he found the duck to be delicious, and when John added a little more sauce to his rice, he understood why this was his favorite. John finished off the sake, which Sherlock hadn't touched, and ate his salmon.

As they finished the meal, it appeared that John had regained his composure and had instead become pensive. He was working through the last of the rice on his tray and examining each piece of sushi as if he could learn something meaningful in the way the fish wrapped around the rice. It was clear that he was working up slowly to some sort of judgement, sorting through his own muddled thought processes, and Sherlock could feel the tension rise in his own body. The jury was out, and he patiently awaited his sentence.

John reached his conclusion just as the last grain of rice popped into his mouth. Sherlock put down his chopsticks and put his hands in his lap. John wiped his mouth with his napkin and set it down on his tray, then looked up at Sherlock and laughed.

"You look like you're awaiting a death sentence," John said. But then he pushed his tray aside and folded his hands on the table, studying Sherlock thoughtfully.

"Ok, here are my terms, and you can take them or leave them but they're not negotiable. I've got the next two days off from work, and that's all you get. I can probably arrange for Sherri to spend the night at Marie's, but you don't get to see her, even if she is right next door. That's not up for discussion."

John paused to see if Sherlock had any comments, and even though a riot was erupting in his brain, Sherlock simply nodded for John to continue.

"No drugs. No guns. No running off and leaving me in the lurch."

Sherlock nodded again, and John took a deep breath then mumbled something to himself that sounded like "bloody barmy." John got up from the table and put on his jacket. He paused as he looked down at Sherlock, and he looked like he was going to say something else but then changed his mind.

"I'll see you in the morning then," he said. "Thanks for dinner."

Sherlock watched as John walked out of the restaurant and turned the corner into the night.


	6. Shoscombe Old Place

Sherrinford Morstan Watson was not nearly as ignorant as her daddy thought she was.

For example, she knew that her mummy had been shot and killed a really long time ago when she was two. She had vague memories of her mummy, the feel of her cotton robe and her soft skin, of being in a cot and looking up at her kind face. But Sherri wasn't sure if these were actual memories or just imagined stories about the pictures that Daddy had all over the house.

Sherri thought Mummy was pretty. She would sit with her head on her hands and look at the pictures and wish Mummy was still alive so they could read books together. Sherri loved books, and all the adults thought she was very good at sitting in one place and reading for a long time.

She especially liked reading with her daddy before she went to bed at night or right after she woke up in the morning. She would wake up and crawl into Daddy's bed, curling up with him in the covers. She loved to cuddle with Daddy. He would wrap his arms around her and snuggle his cold nose into her hair and make her laugh, then pretend to snore and drape his arm over her face. Daddy was so funny, and he knew all sorts of interesting things. He was always telling her facts about animals and anatomy and the strange things she saw on telly. He talked to her like she was a grown up, too, and if she didn't know a word, he would explain it to her.

Sherri noticed that adults thought it was funny when she talked like a grown up and used the big words she learned from Daddy. They would call her "precocious" and "sophisticated" and they would smile at Daddy. He would put his hand on the top of her head and she would feel proud.

Yes, she was smart, and it shouldn't have been a surprise to anyone that she knew so much about what was going on around her — especially to Daddy. So when Daddy called Mrs. Turner one evening and asked quietly if Sherri could spend the night the following night, even though this wasn't unusual, her ears perked up immediately at the tenor of the conversation.

Daddy was standing in the kitchen and Sherri was at the table looking at a book about amphibians and finishing a bowl of sliced apples. He took out his phone and made the call, putting the phone to his ear and his other hand on his hip. He took a deep breath and then looked at the ceiling as if he might find strength there.

"Hi Marie. How are you? …. I'm glad to hear about that. How's the wrist? Yeah, ok?... You should let me take a look at it sometime. But, um, I was calling to see if you wouldn't mind taking Sherri overnight tomorrow?"

Pause.

"Um, no actually…" he looked over to Sherri at the table and then turned his back to her and spoke more quietly — always a sign that one should pay closer attention.

"No, it's not for work. I'm going out of town…. It's, uh, how do I put this? It's for a case…. Yes, actually, it is…. No, she doesn't…. No, she doesn't either…. No, but I'm a grown man, you know, I can do what I like, I don't have to check with — …. I know what I said…. No, nothing has changed, I just —…. Listen, Marie, I really think he's trying to make some positive changes in his life. He's had a terrible time of it and —…. No, I haven't forgotten…."

Long pause.

"Don't worry, I'll be careful. It's ok. It's just for one night and I made him promise that it wouldn't come to that …. So can you do it?... Thanks. We'll see you in the morning then. And, um, don't tell Mrs. Hudson, alright? Let me talk to her first? …. Great. Thanks. You're a saint, Marie. Really. See you tomorrow. Ta."

Daddy looked at his phone and pressed his finger to the screen, and Sherri went back to her amphibians. She sat reading as he came to the table and sat down next to her.

"What are you looking at?" Daddy asked as he leaned over the book.

"Newts and frogs. Will you read to me?"

"You know how to read. Why don't you read to me?"

"Please, Daddy, I like it when you read."

"'Amphibians are vertebrates, such as newts and frogs. Their babies live in water swimming under rocks and logs," he said in a sing-song voice.

Sherri smiled up at him.

"Am I going to Mrs. Turner's tomorrow?"

"Yep. You get to spend the night."

"Yeah! Can I bring my horse collection?"

"You can bring as many books and toys as you can fit inside your dinosaur pack, but it's only for one night. I'll see you the next day."

"Will I see Mrs. Hudson?"

"I suppose so."

"Yeah! She always has chocolate biscuits."

Daddy smiled at her, reaching over and tucking a blonde curl behind her ear, and then Sherri went back to her book and Daddy went back to the kitchen. They didn't talk about it any more. Even though she could feel little bubbles of excitement in her tummy, she knew Daddy wouldn't want to talk about it.

He always got a little angry when she asked too many questions about Sherlock.

* * *

The next day, John and Sherri got out of a cab in front of 219 Baker Street and knocked on the door. Marie Turner answered, wiping her hands on her apron and ushering them inside. Sherri ran straight up the stairs to the guest bedroom, which used to be Marie's son's but Sherri had slowly claimed ownership over the years. Even though John tried to keep her stuff contained to her over-night bag, Marie had some Sherri-sized clothes in the bureau and some Sherri-sized books on the book shelf.

John stood in the entryway with Marie for a moment, allowing her to give him a withering look. After a moment, she just shook her head.

"Do you have time for a cuppa or are you rushing off?"

"I should probably get next door…."

Marie sighed and her face switched to heartbreakingly worried.

"Are you sure about this, John? It really does sound like a terrible idea."

"I know it does," John said, lowering his head and closing his eyes. "But if I have a chance to make a difference and maybe put him on a better path…."

"You don't owe that man anything, John Watson, do you hear me? He chose his own path."

At that, John looked back up to her.

"It's more complicated than that, you know it is," he said, his eyes serious. "It's never been simple, and I've played my part in this as well."

She quirked her mouth to one side, not convinced, but John put his hand on her arm and squeezed it.

"Don't worry, Marie. It'll be ok. It's just a quick trip and I'll be back tomorrow night. I don't know what we would have done without you and Mrs. Hudson, you know. Sherri and I would have both been lost."

Marie Turner, standing there with her greying hair and her grandmotherly figure, just pursed her lips.

"You just don't lose your way back," she said pointedly, and John smiled and nodded. He turned to the stairs and shouted up.

"I'm out, Princess Buttercup. Can I have a hug and a kiss?"

Sherri ran thumping down the stairs and jumped into John's arms from the second step.

"Love you, Daddy."

"Love you too, sweetheart. See you tomorrow. You be good for Mrs. Turner."

"I will."

He gave her a kiss on the top of the head and set her down, then John Watson left his daughter to go on his first case in three years.

* * *

When John stepped through the front door of 221b, he made it only two steps before he halted in his tracks. The faint singing of Sherlock's violin came echoing eerily down the stairway, playing a song that he recognized instantly. It was the waltz that he wrote for John's wedding.

John closed his eyes briefly and then quietly closed the front door behind him. He stood listening for several long moments as the sound grew, hitting a few well-placed minor notes and then rising to a piercing height. And then the music stopped abruptly, and John could hear Sherlock stomp around upstairs then start all over again, this time with a slightly slower pace.

John walked quietly up the stairs and peeked in the door, and there was Sherlock, barefoot in his robe with his back to the door. He was reading the music, and after a few seconds he stopped playing again and made a notation on the sheet.

"What are you doing to my waltz?" John asked, and Sherlock spun around.

"Expanding it," Sherlock said and then turned back to the sheet music and flipped the pages over, starting from the beginning. John walked in and settled himself on the settee, watching as Sherlock brought the violin to his chin and began to move through the waltz. It began as John remembered it, lovely and light, strolling along with a simple melody, but midway through it changed, slowing and taking on a more melancholy melody that had a wider range of notes than before. It reminded him of lonely, open hillsides and high cliffs near the ocean, and suddenly he was back on the night he was married, when he found out Mary was pregnant and the whole world seemed bright in front of him. He found himself closing his eyes as the music transported him into an internal landscape he didn't often visit these days….

And then suddenly the music stopped, and John lifted his head to watch as Sherlock took the sheet music and put it into a folder.

"I think it wasn't finished," Sherlock said as he put the folder in his desk and began to put away his violin. "And I find myself moved to complete it." He closed the violin case and then turned to John, but on seeing John's face, he paused.

"You don't mind, do you?" he said, suddenly sounding unsure.

John cleared his throat. "I'm not sure if you should. It was a gift for me and Mary. I'm surprised to hear you play it, frankly."

"Why?"

"Because you told me you never would again," John said. "But I know, all bets are off these days. And it's fine. You can do what you like with it. You wrote it."

Sherlock looked at him sideways for a moment, then took off his robe and hung it up next to the door. He walked over to the mantle in his pyjama bottoms and t-shirt and turned to face John again, the empty space of the living room spanning between them.

"Thanks for coming," Sherlock said after a moment, and then his cheek gave a twitch that might have been a smile.

"So. Berkshire," John said and then leaned back against the couch, his arms resting on the back.

"Yes, Berkshire," Sherlock said and clapped his hands, becoming animated. "So our client will be here any moment. He's already late. But before he comes, what do you know about horse racing?"

John shrugged. "I probably know more than most, actually. I watch enough of it on television. Sherri is going through a horse phase, and besides, she really likes the silly hats."

"Hats? What hats?"

"Oh come on, Sherlock. Royal Ascot? With the crazy hats and the … what do you call them? The fascinators?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

John threw up his hands. "It's only one of the biggest social events in England. All the ladies show up with the feathers and fruit and weird insects on their heads. And apparently there's horseracing, too, although you could hardly tell from the tabloids. Kind of a big deal with the queen and all."

"Well, then I suppose I'm lucky to have you to tutor me on the thingamebobs —" Sherlock swirled his hand around his head.

"Fascinators."

"Right. So with all this preoccupation with high society, you've heard of Sir Robert Norberton?"

"Yeah, I've heard of him. He runs Shoscombe Old Place, a famous stable thereabouts. His horse Shoscombe Prince won the Grand National several years back. If I remember right, he's a bit of a daredevil as a jockey, though, and pretty heavy on the whip. Sherri didn't like him much, and he does look a bit cruel. I think I read something in the papers maybe a year ago about him filing for bankruptcy."

"Delightful," Sherlock said, pleased. "You might actually prove to be useful on this case."

John rolled his eyes.

"Oh, don't roll your eyes, you know what I mean," Sherlock said and then started walking towards his bedroom. He began taking off his clothes while he walked, throwing his shirt over his head and then reaching to take off his pyjamas. John turned the other way and looked out the windows. He took a deep breath.

"So why do we care about Sir Robert?" John said as he heard Sherlock rummaging around in his room. Sherlock slammed a drawer and John could hear him throwing things around.

"What?" Sherlock shouted from his bedroom.

"I said," John yelled towards the front of the room, "why do we care about Sir —" and then Sherlock appeared right in front of him, fully dressed in a dark blue silk shirt and black trousers. "— Robert?"

Sherlock was looking down at John with a small smile perched on the corner of his mouth.

"You don't have to yell," he said calmly, and then walked to the window to look out the curtains. "Ah, here comes our client now. John Mason, the head trainer at Shoscombe. I suppose he will fill in some of the details."

Sherlock grabbed a wood chair and set it down in the middle of the room facing the settee.

"John, will you bring him up?"

John got himself off the couch, grumbling "yes, your highness" under his breath as he clomped down the stairs. This whole scene — from the violin to the silk robe to the awkward pauses — was all so familiar, and yet slightly uncomfortable, like finding a soft old shirt that doesn't quite fit anymore. He shook his head as he reached the door and opened it. A tall, austere man stood on the other side, looking slightly confused to see John.

John stuck out his hand.

"Mr. Mason? I'm Dr. John Watson. Sherlock is expecting you."

Mason took John's hand.

"Dr. Watson? I remember you from the news. I didn't realise you were still working with Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, well, I help out now and then," he said as he opened the door wider and stepped aside. "Right up the stairs."

Mason passed him and John closed the door. He was about to head upstairs after Mason when he saw Mrs. Hudson, standing in her doorway with her arms crossed. She just stared at him with a hard look on her face.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," John said apologetically. She just stood there glaring.

"I know, I know, I've already had a talking to from Mrs. Turner," John said as he walked over to her. She just turned away from him and went back into her apartment. He followed her in.

"Listen, it's just this once. I'm just helping him out —"

"John!" Sherlock bellowed from upstairs.

John winced as Mrs. Hudson walked over to her table and sat down. She picked up her cup of tea and began to blow over the top of it.

"Can we talk about this in a bit, after the client leaves?" John pleaded.

"John!" Sherlock yelled again. Mrs. Hudson raised her eyebrows at him and then took a sip.

"Ok, we're not done here," John pointed his finger at her and scolded, and then he closed the door and ran up the stairs, taking two at a time.

"Finally," Sherlock said as John walked into the flat. Sherlock sat down on the settee and faced Mason. John looked for a place to sit and realized there was no where but next to Sherlock. He mumbled "excuse me" and brushed past Sherlock's knees and sat down on the other side. Sherlock handed him a pad of paper and a pen, which John took reluctantly, and then he turned to Mason.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Mason. I was intrigued by your letter but you left out all the interesting details. You say that your employer has been acting oddly?"

"Yes, I appreciate you talking with me, Mr. Holmes. Frankly, I'm concerned that something has gone quite wrong at Shoscombe, and I didn't want to involve the police, you understand. I wouldn't want to upset Lady Beatrice, and I'm sure there is a good explanation for Sir Robert's behaviour."

"He's been —" Sherlock picks up a print out of an email and looks at it, reading aloud, " 'out at all hours of the night in the family graveyard,' and 'even though Lady Beatrice takes a drive through the countryside every day, I haven't actually seen her in a week'? I assume Lady Beatrice is his wife."

"No, sir, his widowed sister. The land is hers, but when she dies it will pass to her brother-in-law and Sir Robert will likely be off the farm without a penny to his name. He has a considerable amount of debt, so that must be weighing heavy on him."

"And you suspect foul play?"

"I honestly don't know what to believe. All I know is that Sir Robert gave away his sister's favorite dog, a prize-winning black spaniel, to a local innkeeper, and she no longer comes around to the stables. She used to come every day to visit the horses, but now the only time she comes out of the house is when Sir Robert drives her somewhere. Even then I can't see her through the dark glass of the car. But when I ask after her, Sir Robert becomes quite irate and won't speak of it. If nothing else, I am concerned that she is unwell."

John took a few notes as Mason spoke: _Sir Robert visiting graveyard, Lady Beatrice stopped visiting horses, drives around but hasn't been seen, black spaniel given away to innkeeper_.

Mason looked at the hat he was holding in his hands, then spoke quietly but firmly.

"I am out of my depth here I'm afraid, Mr. Holmes. I'm hoping you can help somehow."

Sherlock smiled at him.

"Not to worry, Mr. Mason. We will come out this very afternoon to investigate. Which inn took the spaniel?"

"The Green Dragon."

John nearly groaned. Of course it was The Green Dragon, of all the inns in Berkshire it had to be that one. He looked at Sherlock but the detective gave no sign of recognition of the name. Was this another one of Sherlock's tricks? John wrote down, "The Green Dragon, really?"

"Excellent. We'll take the train up shortly," Sherlock said as he stood and showed Mason to the front door. But John sat looking at the pen in his hands and the writing on his notepad. Scenes of other adventures unspooled in his mind, an adventure of another sort from another time long ago, a time he wasn't sure he was ready to revisit. He bounced the pen against his lips and tried to think this through.

"We'll need fishing equipment, John," Sherlock said as he burst back into the flat. "I have no idea where to find such things but it shouldn't be too hard. We will go to the inn and check in as gentlemen anglers getting out of London for the day, then chat up the owners. I have a plan brewing that centers on the performance of a certain spaniel." He sat down at his computer at the table and began typing.

"The Green Dragon?" John said after a moment of watching Sherlock type. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock responded absentmindedly. Click click click went his fingers on the keyboard.

"Really?" John pressed.

"Yes, really, that's what the man said. Didn't you hear?" Sherlock said impatiently and waved his hand at John without looking up. "Will you call and make arrangements?"

John nodded. Ok, old boy, you're either in or you're out. What will it be? He pulled out his phone and made a quick search, then pressed a number.

"Hi, Green Dragon Inn? Yes, I'd like to reserve a couple of rooms for tonight."

* * *

_[Author's note: I just wanted to say thank you for all for the reviews. Even though writing this is a labour of love, reviews are like a bouquet of sweet daisies to a writer. It makes this process so much more rewarding and I adore them, so thank you.]_


	7. The Healing Powers of Banana Shampoo

They were ready. Sherlock had assembled a duffel bag of odd fishing equipment: rods and reels, waders and boots, tackle and jars of brightly coloured bait. Props for a stage show, all of them. Apparently they were going for trout, which were swimming in some of the streams and lakes nearby, and that was good enough for him.

People were too stupid to see through disguises anyway. If you gave them a simple story, they almost always took it, no matter how ridiculous. Hook, line and sinker, Sherlock smiled to himself.

He looked to John, who was rearranging his bag, dressed casually in jeans and a brown wool button-down shirt, and Sherlock felt a twinge of anxiety. His smile faded. The anxiety was never far away, always right near the surface. He had to constantly push it down and away in order to function and move forward, but every time he looked at John, he could not avoid it.

Because he looked at John and saw all of the things he was missing.

As they were packing, he kept John in his peripheral vision, trying to catch the small clues that helped him define his new reality. John's face would let Sherlock know that this comment was out of place, or that item Sherlock should know about, or this person is a previous but forgotten connection. All things that should be obvious but weren't. The flow of details into the gaping hole in his mind was overwhelming, and he would find himself adrift in confusion until he allowed himself to focus on the matter at hand. Only then, with his full attention captivated on some minutia, would he temporarily lose the anxiety that surrounded his forgotten self.

But for now, Sherlock simply tried to force it aside, like closing a book and putting it back on the shelf, and he picked up his large bag.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yep," John said as he zipped up his own large bag. Sherlock turned and started down the stairs and John followed. When they reached the bottom, however, John stopped and put his bag on the floor.

"I promised Mrs. Hudson I would stop in before we left," he said and looked Sherlock in the eyes. They were always gauging each other, taking temperatures, never certain. "I'll just be a minute."

"Don't take long," Sherlock said then picked up John's bag. "The cab should be here any moment."

John nodded and walked over to Mrs. Hudson's door and rapped his knuckles on it. Sherlock opened the front door and took their bags onto the pavement and set them down.

As he stood there looking up and down the street for their cab, he felt the presence of someone else leaning against the wall to his left, and he looked over. There was a small blonde girl, maybe five or six years old, standing next to Mrs. Turner's door and staring at him.

It took Sherlock a moment to recognise her, but then the rushing realisation made him turn and face her at full attention. For several moments they just looked at each other, her with her yellow curls, big blue eyes, and brown dress, and him with his multi-pocketed fishing jacket, rod, and hat with barbless fishhooks.

"Hello," said the girl.

"Hello," Sherlock replied.

"Are you in disguise?" she asked, looking at his hat and tilting her head to the side.

"Yes," Sherlock answered.

"Are you and Daddy going on an adventure?"

"Yes."

"Are you planning to shoot anyone?"

Sherlock paused and looked at her thoughtfully.

"I was not planning on it, no."

"That's good. I don't want Daddy to get shot."

"Are you worried that he will get shot?"

"Well," Sherri said and fixed him with a matter-of-fact look that was eerily familiar, "people do have a tendency to get shot around you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Like who?"

"Mummy. Daddy. Criminals." She shrugged.

At that, Sherlock walked over to her and knelt down so he was at eye level, holding his fishing rod like a staff next to him.

"Sherrinford Morstan Watson, firstly, it's a pleasure to meet you." He reached out his hand, and she put her small cool one inside his and they shook. "I know you've met me before but I'm just meeting you for the first time. You see, I had an accident and lost my memory. Understand?"

She nodded and looked concerned.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

Sherlock took off his hat and showed her his scar. She went on her tip toes to look at it closely.

"I had a ruptured brain aneurysm. It's when a blood vessel in your brain bursts and it starts bleeding. But now I'm mostly ok, except I can't remember a lot of things."

"Why did you have a brain anerism?"

"Aneurysm. Because I took too many drugs. Don't take drugs, Sherri. They're bad for you."

She nodded again solemnly, her eyebrows pulled together in serious consideration, and Sherlock continued.

"Secondly, I cannot promise that your dad won't be shot at, but I can promise I will do anything and everything in my power to make sure he returns home safely."

Sherri looked at him for a moment more, and then she reached out her arms and slipped them around Sherlock's neck, squeezing him tightly. His face was suddenly buried in fine golden down and a rushing scent filled his lungs. He began to feel dizzy as the smell of her hair ignited neurons in the white matter of his brain, forming connections along pathways leading to rooms where they were sitting on a train and John reached over with a napkin and wiped the applesauce off her mouth and they were in the flat and Sherlock rushed to stop her from toddling into the kitchen because there was broken glass on the floor and she was singing loudly in the bath and John sat on the edge of the tub and washed her hair with her favourite banana shampoo as the bubbles spilled on the floor and —

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and released himself from Sherri's arms. He stood up and wobbled slightly, supporting himself with the fishing rod. He looked up and saw Mrs. Turner, the next door neighbor, reach down and take Sherri's hand.

"I'm sorry, I thought you had left," she said, and then looked down worriedly, as if making sure Sherri was alright.

"Oh, um," Sherlock said and then looked over to his door. What was he doing? Waiting for something? "Oh, yes." He blinked and turned back to Mrs. Turner. "I'm waiting for John. He's talking with Mrs. Hudson."

"Daddy!" Sherri yelled suddenly and then ran past him. John had come through the door at 221b, and he opened his arms just in time to catch Sherri as she jumped into them.

"Hey, sweetheart, what are you doing out here?" John said pleasantly, but his eyes were hard as they shot over to Sherlock.

"Sherlock and I were just talking. Mrs. Turner is going to take me to feed the ducks. She bought the special kind of food that's supposed to be good for them, though, so don't worry."

Sherlock's vision seemed to swim around the edges as he watched John hold his daughter, John's eyes drilling into Sherlock's and holding inside them something dark and dangerous. Sherlock could feel that there were landmines all around him, but he had no idea what they looked like or what would set them off. So he stood perfectly straight, his knuckles white on the fishing rod. Perhaps if he held his breath and didn't move, the world would stop spinning.

John looked back at Sherri then, his face relaxing as he kissed her on the forehead.

"I'm not worried," he said and smiled. "You have fun feeding the ducks. We're off for now. Our cab is here."

He then leaned into her ear, his mouth covered by her curls, and whispered something Sherlock couldn't hear. John pulled back and looked at Sherri. She nodded, and John walked over and set Sherri down next to Mrs. Turner.

"I'll call you when we get there," he said and smiled to the two of them. Then he looked at Sherlock and his face tightened. He held out his arm, pointing to the cab, and Sherlock immediately walked over to the bags and picked them up, going to the boot of the cab and putting in the bags. John was already in the back seat when Sherlock got in; he closed the door and they started moving.

John wasn't looking at him. He was looking out the window, hard, displeased, with small ripples of the ever-present emotions sweeping through his rigid body. Sherlock could see it all over him, the hand curled into a fist, the lips tight, the small sighs slipping through his nose.

Sherlock reviewed everything that had happened so far that day, rewinding it in his mind and pressing play, re-watching the scenes with an eye out for his inevitable mistakes. Playing the violin was perhaps a mistake. Was it an emotional trigger? Mental note, he'd have to ask later. The client was fine, nothing there. His computer research was fine, nothing — wait.

Press pause, rewind. John had asked about The Green Dragon Inn. He replayed that a few times, slowly. Yes, something was there, something in John's tone. Mental note, move forward, but it got worse from there. Preparations for the trip were awkward, God only knows the depth of disaster in that scene as they kept bumping into each other while they packed. John would go to look for something in the kitchen or the bathroom and it wasn't there and he would grumble. They danced like positively charged magnets around each other and around the flat, each avoiding the other, each with incomplete data, trying to patch together a plan and a relationship out of whatever scraps they could find.

He had no idea what kind of emotional pitfalls there might have be in there. He wouldn't even know what they look like. It was endless, the number of times he may have inadvertently offended John.

"You've started chewing your fingernails again," John said, and Sherlock's mind was whipped back into the cab, fidgeting, chewing, bouncing. He put his hand in his lap and glanced over at John.

John was watching him again carefully, and it seemed some of the coldness had left his body. He was back to being puzzled, which seemed like a semi-permanent state for him these days.

"I'm sorry about seeing Sherri. She was just…there," Sherlock said. "I had no intention to —"

"I know, don't worry about it," John said. "It wasn't your fault."

"No, I know, but." Sherlock was starting to feel hot. "I hadn't."

He hadn't expected the images. They were memories. He was sure of it. Could smells bring back memories? And not even important memories, but simple, ordinary, mundane, memories of simple, ordinary, mundane people going about their simple, ordinary, mundane….

"Sherlock?" John said, sounding alarmed, and he seemed to involuntarily reach over to Sherlock's face. "Are you…?"

Sherlock wiped the wetness off his face.

"No, don't be ridiculous," he said and rubbed his nose on his sleeve and turned away and faced the window. Mental note, file it away, examine it later. Detach.

Oh, wait. He had forgotten. That was outside the rules now.

He turned back to John, who was now looking look worried.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Or maybe, I don't know. What was the question?"

"What's going on?"

"Oh. I'm not sure. But I suspect that the connections between my olfactory bulb and my limbic system have triggered some sort of conditioned response associated with past events."

John squinted his eyes and looked around the roof of the car, trying to follow.

"So… you smelled something?"

"Precisely."

"And now you're remembering things again," John said more dryly.

"Exactly."

"How convenient." John looked away again.

"They were just glimpses, more like photographs than memories, and it will require further study. But there's a chance that I can access the hippocampus through stimulus from familiar odors."

"Hm," John said, nonplussed.

Sherlock leaned over to try to sniff John and was immediately pushed away.

"Ohhh no. Nope," John said and kept his hand up. "I don't know what you're doing — although God knows I never do — but you're to keep that nose...," he pointed at Sherlock's face "...over there," he pointed to the corner of the car behind Sherlock.

Sherlock sat back up and looked out the window. That went interestingly well. He's becoming more and more pleased with his new M.O. A new and exciting experiment occurred to him that he'll have to try out on the train.

"I don't trust you when you're smiling," John said after a moment.

Sherlock turned to him.

"You don't trust me anyway, so what's the worry?" and gave him the biggest, most brilliant smile he possessed.


	8. Truth or Dare

They boarded a train heading west to Newbury and took four seats at a table. As John put his bag in the rack above the seats, Sherlock sat down and folded his hands beneath his chin, pondering how to proceed.

The train began to pull out of Paddington Station, rolling smoothly as the clickity clack of the wheels increased slowly. John settled into his seat opposite Sherlock and placed a couple of water bottles on the table. But when John looked up, he just smiled in exasperation and shook his head.

"Ok, Cheshire Cat, what's this plan of yours? It's all over your face, you know. You're like a mad villain in Dr. Who."

"What shall we do to pass the time?" Sherlock asked enigmatically, tapping his finger tips together in front of his chin.

"Gee. I don't know. Do you have any ideas?" John asked sarcastically.

"As a matter of fact, I do," Sherlock said and his small smile grew to a full-on grin. "Let's play —" he leaned in over the table and whispered "— Truth or Dare."

John laughed.

"With you? You can't be serious."

"Deadly," Sherlock said menacingly and then leaned back. "Why? Are you afraid?"

John sat with a goofy, stunned look on his face.

"Wow," he said finally, and then kind of shook himself as if he were waking up. He stretched his arms and then rested them on the table in front of him, tilting his head from side to side as if stretching before a prize fight. "Alright, sure. I guess it's better than Cluedo. Who goes first?"

"I will," Sherlock said, "and I pick Truth."

"Right," John nodded, then looked out the window searching for a question and watching the buildings as they sped past. Then he smiled and leaned in, ready to strike the first punch. "Alright, Mr. Holmes, what's the last thing you remember from before the stroke? Or claim to remember anyway."

"That's easy," Sherlock responded, dodging easily. "The Woman."

"Of course," John chuckled. "Well, she was memorable. So we were living on Baker Street, but it was before your jump?"

Sherlock nodded, and John just smiled again.

"You might as well skip that whole drama, eh? Makes it easier, doesn't it? Not remembering? But that means you must remember Moriarty and the swimming pool and the whole thing with the —" John made some motions around his midsection.

"Yes. Distinctly," Sherlock said seriously.

"What about the hound? Do you remember that?"

"No, nothing particular about any hounds, although I read my notes on that case. It sounds interesting. I wish I could remember."

"How about the —"

"You've had enough. It's my turn," Sherlock said, and John closed his mouth. "Truth or Dare?"

John thought about it for a few seconds. "Truth."

"Why did you come on this case?" Sherlock asked, leaning in and watching John's face carefully.

John looked down at his hands holding his water bottle and his face grew darker.

"Remember, you must tell the truth, John."

"I know the rules," John grumbled. He looked at Sherlock again and considered, but after a few seconds his face seemed to relax a little and he shrugged. "Because it sounded like fun, to be honest. And I haven't had a lot of fun lately. Mostly I just work a lot and take care of Sherri."

"And… you and I have fun?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, we did for a long time. And you're … different now. I can't really explain it, but the way you are now is a lot like how you were when I first met you. Back before everything kind of fell apart."

Sherlock was watching John intensely, trying to pick up on all of the things John wasn't saying. But even though he seemed on the edge of asking another question, Sherlock leaned back.

"Your turn," Sherlock said instead.

"Truth or Dare?"

"Truth."

"Ok, uh…" John looked around the train, trying to think of a question. "Let's see, I can't ask you anything about the last decade because you —" he made air quotes around his head "— 'can't remember,' so what else is there? How about 'what did you have for breakfast?' "

Sherlock just leveled him with a look. "I'm not going to even bother answering that question."

"Ok, then…," and John looked at Sherlock a little more seriously. "What did you think of the files I gave you on the thumb drive?"

"They were… unexpected," Sherlock said. "Like I said earlier, I enjoyed watching the video with you and Sherri. Thank you for that. Although I have to say, you were a little stiff in the delivery."

"Yes, well, I was not very enthusiastic about making the video. Mycroft made me."

"That was clear," Sherlock said dryly. "And as for the rest of the videos, the ones of us investigating, those were ... odd. Why were you taking videos of me, exactly?"

"It was a failed attempt to have a video blog," John said. "But you would not take them seriously, for one, and you refused to talk into the camera, for another, and after a while it became downright depressing because half the time you were just telling me what an idiot I was and how bored you were. Also, some of the things we did weren't exactly legal, as you could see, so I figured it was best not to put them on the Internet. You know, us breaking into places and creeping around. Probably not so good."

"So why did you give them to me?"

John shrugged. "I guess I wanted to remind you of who you are. A rude, disrespectful, ridiculous —"

"Yes, alright."

— obstinate, brilliant, funny person who is impossible to pin down because you always fly at supersonic speed and it's breathtaking. But…." John shrugged.

"But what?"

"You're the world's only consulting detective," John said, "and I think you had forgotten that."

"I see," Sherlock said. "Well, thank you for the reminder."

"You're welcome."

"Truth or Dare."

"Truth," John said with a sigh.

"Did you read to me when I was in a coma?"

John's eyebrows came together.

"Did someone tell you that?"

"No, but I remember a man's voice reading to me. It's one of the first things I remember after the stroke. It was… comforting."

John shifted in his seat. "Yes, well. I only did it when you were in intensive care. It's supposed to be therapeutic."

"That was very sweet of you, John."

"Oh, shut up."

"Especially since we weren't talking at the time, apparently…"

"Your turn," John interrupted, trying to hide a smile. "Truth or Dare?"

"Truth," Sherlock said.

"No, I think this time you'll take a dare," John said and tilted his head.

"That's not in the rules," Sherlock said indignantly.

"I don't care. Show me your tattoo." John sat back and folded his arms across his chest expectantly.

Sherlock sat up straight and looked around the train using only his eyes. There were several people who could see him, but all of them were absorbed with some kind of electronic device. So Sherlock looked John in the eyes and held them there as he began taking off his clothes. He took off his silly fishing vest and hat and set them on the seat beside him, then he slowly began to unbutton his shirt.

To his delight, as he moved his hands down his chest, John started turning pink again.

"Oh Jesus, where is it?" John said.

"Should have thought about that earlier, John," Sherlock said huskily and finished unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled the shirt tails out of his trousers and then pulled his arms out of his sleeves. As he turned his back to John, he tried to watch John's face.

As soon as John saw the tattoo, he looked surprised.

"Is that…?" he said and then leaned over the table so he could look at it more closely. "_Veritas vos_…" he read aloud, and Sherlock could see him translating. As soon as he understood the meaning, he looked Sherlock in the eyes, the jovial mood suddenly shifting as hurt came over John's face. John sat back down in his seat and looked out the window again, looking lost as he puzzled through his thoughts.

Sherlock put his shirt back on and buttoned it while watching John stare out the window. It was as Sherlock had suspected. Even though he had never seen the tattoo before, John had context that Sherlock did not. He had hoped it would be a positive association, but apparently not.

"What does it mean, John?"

John looked at him again, his eyes accusing this time.

"You should know. It's your tattoo."

"Yes, but —" But he couldn't remember! He growled with frustration low in his throat. This was starting to get tedious and frustrating, the fact that John was so obstinate in his tenacious grip on denial. At some point soon he was going to have to figure out how to prove it to John, because simple persistence wasn't working. "But what does it mean to you?"

"The truth shall set you free," John said nodding. "Really?" he said looking at Sherlock as if he should know.

Sherlock just glared, and John gave up. "It's essentially one of the last things I said to you before I moved out, Sherlock."

"But that doesn't make sense. Why would the truth set me free? What truth?"

John huffed. "No, Sherlock. Your Latin's gotten a little rusty. It doesn't say 'the truth shall set _me_ free.' It says 'the truth shall set _you_ free.' "

All of the sudden, sparks went off in Sherlock's mind. This wasn't a message to himself. It was a message to John, or others. It was a promise. It was a warning.

"How did the truth set you free, John?"

John looked as if he was unsure if he should even answer, but he apparently decided to play along.

"Well I left, didn't I?" John said.

"What was the truth?" Sherlock insisted in frustration.

"I don't…" John rubbed his face for a moment, holding his palms to his eyes. When he took them away, his eyes were slightly red. "I don't want to do this now. It's your turn."

"John."

"Your turn, Sherlock."

"Ok fine, Truth or Dare?" Sherlock said rapidly.

"Dare," John answered immediately.

"Show me _your_ tattoo," Sherlock said, taking an educated guess.

John looked at him as if he was plain stupid.

"You've already seen my tattoo," John said, his nostrils flaring. "Many times."

"Then show it to me again."

John pinched his lips together and started to quickly unbutton his shirt, showing a white t-shirt underneath. He then took off the sleeve of his right arm and lifted up the sleeve on his t-shirt. On his shoulder was a tattoo that looked similar in composition, shape and size to Sherlock's.

Sherlock's eyes widened and he leaned in to examine the tattoo, and gave an "Ah" of understanding as he looked at it closer. It was the insignia of the Royal Army Medical Corps, with two garlands on either side of a caduceus with a crown on top and a banner underneath.

"_In arduis fidelis_," Sherlock read aloud and then sat back in his seat. "Faithful in adversity. Well you are that."

John put his shirt back on, buttoning it quickly and not looking at Sherlock.

"It's more than 10 years old," Sherlock continued, "so you must have got it when you were in the Army. It would make sense then that if the message on my tattoo was meant for you in some way that I would imitate yours. Although I have to say, John, your explanation doesn't exactly feel right. Why would I have a clef as part of the symbolism? Is it possible that I was, indeed, speaking to myself when I was embracing the freedom of truth? On the other hand, _veritas vos liberabit_ is a Biblical verse from the Book of John, which would indicate that perhaps..."

Sherlock trailed off. John wasn't looking at him, and instead was drinking his water and turning the bottle cap round and round on the table top. It appeared John wasn't going to respond one way or another to Sherlock's observations.

"Your turn then," Sherlock said abruptly.

"I don't want to play any more, Sherlock."

"We still have at least half an hour," Sherlock said, his voice low in his chest. "Come on, John. We can't leave the game there. Ask me."

John closed his eyes, seeking some sort of internal strength.

"Fine. Truth or Dare."

"Truth," Sherlock answered.

"Are we there yet?" And John grabbed his bottle of water and stood up, walking down the aisle towards the dining car.


	9. The Green Dragon Inn

By the time they arrived at Newbury Station, Sherlock and John had lapsed into silence. Sherlock had decided to leave John be for the time being and had simply watched as John texted ahead to the inn to send a driver. As they grabbed their bags and headed to the front of the station, Sherlock followed behind, but before they got to the car, John stopped and turned to Sherlock.

"Let me do the talking, ok?" John said, his first words in half an hour, and Sherlock opened his mouth to object. But upon catching John's glare, he simply nodded.

The driver was waiting for them, and after they were loaded in, he began to drive them through a series of roundabouts and out of town.

"You here for a wedding?" he asked from the front seat, looking at them in his rearview mirror.

"No, just getting out of town to go fishing," John replied. "We're leaving tomorrow."

The driver nodded and didn't say anything further. They soon were driving alongside a river lined with tall trees, and eventually the driver slowed and pulled into a drive marked with a sign "The Green Dragon Inn." The historic brick inn was nestled in a copse of yew trees and had several old buildings that looked out over rolling green hills. A series of trails connected the grounds with the river and the hills beyond.

They stepped out into a sunny and warm afternoon, grabbed their bags and headed in through the main doors of the old inn. As soon as the woman behind the front counter saw them, her face lit up in a huge smile.

"John! Sherlock! I was so delighted to hear you were coming," she said as she came from behind the counter and gave John a big hug, patting his cheek. She then turned to Sherlock and grabbed his hand in both of hers. "It's such a pleasure to see you both again, although I'm disappointed you're only staying for one night. I wish it could be longer. I want to hear all about the doings in London."

She dropped Sherlock's hand and then headed back to her reservation book on the counter.

"And I wish you would have called earlier, John. I would have given you two a hot tub suite as before, but we've got two weddings and both rooms are taken." She looked up at John. "So sorry, all I've got left is the King."

John was biting both his lips, his eyebrows up near his hairline.

"Ah, yes. Nice to see you again as well, Mrs. Barnes. But I called asking for two rooms, actually, not one. Did you get the message?"

"Oh, yes, it's right here. You asked for a couple's room."

"No, I asked for a couple of rooms."

"Oh," the woman said, looking again at her note. "Oh! I see. But why would you want…?"

She looked back and forth between John and Sherlock, who were looking back at her expectantly, and then she seemed to see something in their body language that made her cheeks flush.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't know," she said quietly to John. "But I only have the one room available, and that's only because we had a cancellation."

John closed his eyes temporarily and then opened them and smiled.

"That's all right, Mrs. Barnes. We'll manage. Do you mind if we go right up?"

"Of course, of course, let me get your keys."

As she turned around and walked into the office behind her, Sherlock turned to John.

"Why —?"

John held up his hand for Sherlock to stop, and Sherlock turned forward again and waited impatiently. Mrs. Barnes returned with the keys, and as she gave them to John, she held his hand and leaned in and whispered.

"So sorry to hear about you and Sherlock, dear, but we'll talk about it later," and then she patted his hand and straightened up. "Let me know if you need anything."

John smiled again and grabbed his bag and headed up the stairs. Sherlock followed, and with each step up the stairs, pieces fell into place. As John set down his bag to get the key into the lock, Sherlock walked up and stood right next to him, almost leaning into the door.

"She wasn't just assuming that we were a couple the way that everyone always does," Sherlock said, but John just swore under his breath at the lock as he tried to turn the key. Sherlock continued. "Last time we were here, apparently, we shared the suite with a hot tub. I've seen your tattoo many times, by your own admission, so I've often seen you naked. I told you of my childhood and my plans to own bees, so we've shared secrets. You said that you left, and the implication was that you left _me_ not just Baker Street. You turn fuchsia every time we talk about anything personal between us. I have lists about you in my archive that it now becomes apparent correspond with sexual preferences."

John kicked the door in frustration and tried the key again and it finally turned. He threw it open and grabbed his bag, walking through the door and ignoring Sherlock.

"We were lovers, weren't we," Sherlock said from the doorway. "When you moved back in."

John threw his bag on the bed and finally turned towards Sherlock, furious.

"Ok, cut the crap, Sherlock! I'm done with it. Just drop the fucking act. You can put on your disguises and turn on the charm and pull this shit on everyone else but it's not going to work on me. Not any more."

"John," Sherlock said and came into the room and shut the door, dropping his bag on the floor. He walked right up to John and grabbed him by the shoulders. John put his hands on his hips and refused to look at him.

"John look at me," he said, but John looked at the floor and shook his head.

"Look at me!" Sherlock nearly yelled, and John relented and tilted up his face. In it, Sherlock could see years of betrayal, all the crimes of a past Sherlock might never remember but would always regret.

"John, listen to me. I saw the video of the wedding. I heard the words that I said at the end. I vowed that I would always be there, for all three of you. I told you that it was my first and last vow, but now I am making you another solemn promise. The next thing I tell you is the absolute, unmitigated truth."

Sherlock took in a deep breath.

"I. Don't. Remember."

John looked into Sherlock's eyes. He looked back and forth between them, then he looked all around Sherlock's face, searching. And slowly something changed. Comprehension began to dawn in his eyes. He wobbled slightly on his feet and his breathing became more and more rapid. The anger seemed to slowly change into something akin to horror, and he backed away, out of Sherlock's reach, and brought his hand up to his mouth.

"Oh my god," he said and then turned away. "Oh Jesus."

John turned to a chair that was behind him and sat down. He stared blankly into the room, breathing in and out heavily. Sherlock sat down at the foot of the bed and watched his best friend finally come to terms with the full breadth and depth of the situation. He didn't know what to do. He had a million questions, so much he wanted to know, so many things about his past, about their past. He could spend months just relearning all of the things he once knew. But right now, in this moment, all he could do was sit and watch helplessly as John accepted the stark reality of truth.

Finally, John looked up at Sherlock.

"So you really don't remember?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you."

"I mean, about us?"

Sherlock saw the look of deep sadness on John's face at this, and it made his heart squeeze in his chest.

"I'm truly sorry," Sherlock said.

John reached up and rubbed his temple for a moment then looked back at Sherlock.

"Then yes," he said firmly. "We were lovers. For the better part of a year."

Sherlock just sat and stared. Lovers. For a year. With John. They had lived together and eaten dinners and drank tea and John had worn his ridiculous sweaters and then they had slept together and shared intimacies. Not just physical intimacies, but emotional intimacies. They had told each other secrets, shared stories of their childhoods, talked about their dreams, talked about the future. They had taken care of John's daughter together. They must have been as much of a family as Sherlock had ever come close to in his adult life.

And Sherlock could not remember any of it.

He fell back on the mattress and looked up at the canopy of the four poster bed. He brought his hands up to his face, covering his eyes. He had basically had a daughter. And he couldn't remember. How was this possible? Why did John leave? How could he have let John leave? He knew himself better than that, he would have done anything in his power to keep them together if it had come to that. Anything. He would not make a vow like that lightly, and the one he had made at the wedding was a vow for life, he knew that he meant it wholeheartedly at the time. He knew instinctively that if he had cared that much, he would not have hesitated to kill to keep them together and safe, if it came to that. He was bound to the two of them — the three of them, Mary, too. What could he have done to break up his family?

He rolled over on his side and pulled his legs up on the bed, curling into the fetal position. This was a nightmare. Maybe it all really was a nightmare. Maybe he would wake up. He remembered the Dream when he was in the hospital, how peaceful it was, this hazy place where nothing was real and everything was vaguely pastel coloured. He could imagine now why he took drugs again after John left. Anything is better than this deep sense of loss that was beginning to pull him under.

He felt the bed sink behind him as John sat down.

"It didn't happen right away," John said quietly, his voice rough. "I was shot at the same time Mary was killed, and so I was having to recover both physically and emotionally." John paused, but just the fact that he was there, sitting next to Sherlock and talking, was enough to keep Sherlock just out of reach from whatever unimaginable horror was threatening to drown him.

"I was in bad shape," John continued. "But you took care of me."

Sherlock sniffed. "That seems difficult to believe," he said with his face still in his hands.

"Yeah, it does," John said, and then Sherlock could feel John lying down behind him, his head on the pillows. "But you were really good at it. Surprisingly good at it. Obsessive, really. And you were great with Sherri. She absolutely adored you. She'd follow you around the flat like a little puppy. We called her Shadow Girl because she was always right behind you."

Sherlock felt John's hand then as it came to rest on his shoulder, a small warmth of contact.

"And you were so odd. You are always so odd, that when things started to happen between us and we slept in the same bed and then just kept sleeping in the same bed, it just sort of … happened, like it was just another odd Sherlock thing. I almost didn't even notice what was happening until all of the sudden one day I woke up and you were there next to me like you had been for months and I realised I was happy. I honestly didn't think I would ever be happy again after Mary died, but I was."

John fell silent again, and Sherlock began to feel some of the effects of all this on his body. His chest hurt tremendously, as if he had been hit with a hammer, or something was squeezing his guts from the inside, and he couldn't understand it. His head was also starting to hurt, one of the frequent headaches he suffered these days coming on. He should take some of the medicine that his surgeon had given him for the pain, although he hated it because it dulled his thinking. But maybe this was one of those times that that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," John said quietly.

Sherlock turned over in bed and curled up on his other side, this time with his face buried in the crease between John's rib cage and the mattress. He could feel the warmth of John's body on his face, and the comfort of it made his shoulders slump as his muscles relaxed.

"You have no reason to be sorry, John," he mumbled into John's side and then took a breath. "You have every reason to…"

But it was too late. The distinct scent of John filled his lungs and he was immediately transported back to his bed in 221b Baker Street and they were naked under the duvet and John's head was resting on his shoulder and they were talking about music and Sherlock was kissing John's hair and watching John's face as he described the dreams he had as a child of wanting to play piano and how he now wanted Sherri to play violin and Sherlock was content. No, he was more than content. He didn't ever want anything else other than this endlessly fascinating man in his arms, this ordinary, remarkable, patient, emotional, fierce, dangerous, loyal, infinitely tolerant man with his lovely, loveable, funny daughter.

Sherlock took in a sudden breath and his body jolted, and he felt John's hand come down on his head, resting gently and rubbing his hair.

"You ok?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

John sat up and scooted down on the bed, then he lay down with his face about a foot away from Sherlock's. Sherlock resisted the temptation to hide his face again, and John took the opportunity to study him.

"You should probably eat something," John said after a moment. "We managed to skip lunch."

Sherlock couldn't help but give a small smile.

"That's my John. Always thinking about food."

"I think they're still serving tea if you want to go downstairs," John said and then gave his own small smile. He watched Sherlock again for a few moments then sighed. "Are we really going to do this today? Carry on with this case?"

At that, Sherlock groaned and turned onto his back, closing his eyes and resting his hand over his scar, gently rubbing his head.

"I suppose so. We're already here." Sherlock breathed in and out slowly, then looked back at John, who had propped himself up on his elbow. True to form, John was already adjusting to his new reality, a man accustomed to normalising the chaos that seemed to dominate Sherlock's life. His face was relaxed, and if anything he only looked slightly worried.

As for Sherlock, the image of them naked in bed was having a hard time dislodging from his mind. He rubbed his head a little harder.

"This is going to be difficult," he said finally.

"When has life with you been anything but?" John replied.

"Touché."

Sherlock slowly sat up and, after the head rush passed, stood from the bed, supporting himself with one of the bed posts. He adjusted his shirt to make sure he was presentable, and then turned to John, who was lying on the bed watching him.

"Fortunately, we're British, and there's nothing that can't be solved by a cup of tea," Sherlock said and stood up straighter. "Would you care to join me, Dr. Watson?"


	10. A Dog Named Lizzy

The tea cup rose to John Watson's lips in slow motion and he inhaled just slightly at the exact moment the cup tilted and sweet tea flowed into his mouth, the quick intake of air cooling the tan liquid so slightly, so perfectly. He took a sip and then tilted the cup down, down, slowly closing his mouth, pressing the warmth of the white porcelain against his lip just for the minutest fraction of a moment, and when he finally pulled the cup away a small drop was left at the place of contact, a droplet that clung to the crease in his lip until just the very tip of a pink tongue reached out and touched the place where the cup had been, the place the tea droplet now hung, and it swept the drop into his mouth where the tongue disappeared behind closed lips.

Clink.

"What are you doing?"

John was staring at Sherlock with his eyes slightly squinted. John was staring at Sherlock staring at John's mouth.

"Nothing," Sherlock said and then took a sip of his own tea. He reached over and picked up a scone and the clotted cream.

"Are you sure you're—"

"Yes, I'm fine," Sherlock interrupted.

Objection! yelled the judge in Sherlock's mind palace. Ok, so Sherlock's modus operandi was a little hazy on this particular point. The attorneys were quibbling about it in the corner. Yes, he was fine. He wasn't currently dying, he wasn't taking drugs, he wasn't plotting to murder anyone, so all things considered, taken in context, he was fine. It was all fine.

Just ignore that blare of alarms or the people in the next wing over who, while the barristers argue semantics, are working double time in dark smoky rooms, analyzing the underground passageways and air vents of Fortress John Watson.

Sherlock took a bite of scone.

"So what's the plan then?" John said, taking a scone and some jam.

Sherlock choked a little. "Excuse me?" he said and then took a drink of water.

"This case. What's the next step?"

"Oh right. I suppose we should talk with the proprietor. Is that Mrs. … Barker?"

"Mrs. Barnes. She owns The Green Dragon with her husband."

"Yes, them. I was thinking we should take the dog out for a walk and visit Shoscombe."

"Hoping to sniff around?"

"Something like that," Sherlock said with a smile and took another sip of tea.

"Well if you'd like to talk with Mr. Barnes," John said and pointed out the large windows at a man in rubber boots walking through the trees next to the river, "that's him there. Although do us both a favor and drop the whole fishing thing, please? He knows who you are so don't try to fake it."

"But I brought the hat..." Sherlock said as he watched John spread strawberry jam on his scone "...and rods..." and slowly brought the scone up to his mouth. "And reels…" he said quietly as John opened his mouth and was about to take a bite when he stopped. John paused and then closed his mouth and set the scone back on the plate. Sherlock's eyes went up to meet John's.

"You've got to stop doing that," John said.

Sherlock looked back at his tea.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock said innocently.

Objection!

"Fine, sorry! I'll try to… be better or something, can we go now?" Sherlock said abruptly and then got up from the table. "I think I need to walk."

"But —" John said and looked down longingly at his scone as Sherlock turned to leave the restaurant. John sighed, quickly licked a drop of strawberry jam off his thumb, and got up and trotted after him.

* * *

Like Mrs. Barnes, Josiah Barnes was delighted to see John and Sherlock. He gave them both big hugs and then, much to Sherlock's dismay, clamped his hand on Sherlock's shoulder while he and John exchanged niceties. Sherlock glanced briefly at John, who gave him a warning look, and he could barely keep the eye roll off his face as he suffered through the inane conversation.

"So I understand Sir Robert gave you a dog recently. Can we see it?" Sherlock eventually burst in when he couldn't stand another moment of Barnes droning on about his horrible children.

"Oh yes, you heard about that? It's a lovely pup, but I'm surprised Lady Beatrice over at Shoscombe would give her away. She loved that dog," Mr. Barnes said and scratched his head.

"It's a terrible mystery, is it not, Mr. Barnes? Why do you think she did it?"

"Well, to be honest I'm not sure how much of a choice she had in the matter. She and her brother had quite a row recently, so I hear, and apparently he was done with that poor dog. He said it wouldn't stop barking, would just go on and on, howling it's head off, so he finally brought it over here. We're happy to take her, of course, she's a beautiful dog, but I just feel sorry for Lady Beatrice. It doesn't seem like her to give up her favourite pet."

As Josiah Barnes was talking, Sherlock was slowly walking around him and nodding. He passed Josiah and then stepped behind John. As he was passing directly behind his former flatmate, he leaned in slightly and brushed his nose along the back of his hair. He wasn't able to get much of a sniff, but the brief smell he did get was deeply John, much more than the smell of his shirt earlier. It reminded Sherlock of lemons and gunpowder and gave him a head rush. Everything flashed white for a moment, but he continued walking and the world slowly returned back to its normal colour. As Sherlock rounded the other side of John, his face came back into view. John was now watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes, and his eyebrows knit together with deep suspicion as his hand went to the back of his head and flattened down his hair.

Something about it was captivating, that dangerous look on John's face when he saw something about Sherlock that others didn't and he disapproved. How did Sherlock miss how truly riveting John could be? The truth was he was hardly even listening to Mr. Barnes, had hardly been paying attention to John Mason when he came to the flat to talk about this case. Yes, there was a possible villain and some tomfoolery at a graveyard and a missing woman, but most likely the Lady Beatrice had simply lost interest in her animals and in the goings on at the stud farm and all was in order. Nothing was illegal or out of place about a brother and sister having a disagreement. But this was the first case that had come to him in weeks that took him out of town, allowed him to get together with John for more than an hour.

Because Sherlock had an infinitely more interesting case to solve, and since the revelation in their room half an hour ago, it had come to dominate every sense, every thought.

"Sherlock, are you listening?" John's voice broke through.

"Hm?" he said and then looked to Mr. Barnes. "Yes, yes, of course, it all sounds quite odd. So can we meet this prized pet?"

"Don't see why not," Barnes said and then indicated that they should follow him into the back of the inn. Sherlock put his hand out for John to follow, but John shook his head and put his own hand out. They stood there for three seconds in a battle of wills and then finally John groaned and mumbled "whatever" and walked towards the inn. Sherlock followed, smiling as he watched John walk in front of him.

They walked through the back door to the kitchen, where the smells of roasted beef and thyme gravies and fresh baked bread made Sherlock's mouth water involuntarily — maybe they should have finished their tea — and through a series of pantries and small rooms. Eventually they walked into a small apartment at the back of the inn, and there on a small bed rested a spaniel with long black ears and pearly black fur. Instantly Sherlock's attention was on the dog as it stood up and shook its head, its long ears flopping from side to side. Its tongue unrolled out of the side of its mouth and its bobbed tail wagged as it smiled hello to the people entering the room.

"Hello Lizzy," Barnes said and then went over to ruffle the hair on the dog's head. Sherlock squatted down to the dog's level and the spaniel instantly trotted over to greet him.

"Hey!" Sherlock said and pet the dog, stroking its long ears. The dog reached up and licked his face.

"He likes dogs," John said to Barnes with a chuckle. "Can you tell?"

"This," Sherlock said as he scratched the hair behind the dog's ears, "is one beautiful animal." Then he put his face to the dogs ears and rubbed against the soft hair there. "Hello, Lizzy. Maybe we could take a walk later?"

"You're welcome to, Mr. Holmes," Barnes said. "She loves to go along the river. This time of year there isn't a lot of time for long walks, as we have weddings nearly nonstop from May through September. So if you're going out, please feel free to take her. Her lead is hanging right there on the door."

Sherlock stood up and the dog sat down at his feet, leaning on his leg and looking up at him expectantly. He couldn't keep a bit of a silly grin off his face.

"That sounds perfect. We should be able to take her out shortly and be back in time for dinner. Wouldn't you say, Lizzy?" he said and looked back down at the dog.

John laughed. "Let's get our jackets and we can be on our way then."

John and Sherlock followed Barnes back through the inn's labyrinthine corridors and found their room, changed into walking clothes and went to get the dog. Lizzy was eager to get outside, and while John looked up Shoscombe Old Place on his phone to figure out the best walking route, Sherlock just let the dog lead the way for a while. They walked along the manicured trails until they reached a well-maintained bridle path along the river, and then headed north. The dog was well-mannered and curious, sniffing along every bush and wanting to explore every small animal trail that went off to the side.

"You would be an excellent investigative companion," Sherlock said to the dog, who was busy sniffing near a rabbit hole. "That keen nose must pick up all kinds of interesting evidence."

"You know, I knew you loved dogs because of Redbeard and all, but I didn't quite realise the depths of your affection," John said amusedly.

"You're trying to get a rise out of me, Dr. Watson, and it's not going to work. This afternoon is too pleasant," Sherlock said good-naturedly. "If you know about Redbeard then you know of my love for dogs. They are delightful and intelligent creatures, and with one like this, perfectly companionable for humans."

"Why didn't you ever get a dog then?"

"In London? That would never do. Dogs are meant to be outdoors, exploring and chasing through the woods, hunting with their masters. They are carnivorous pack animals and not suited to be cramped up in some tiny flat. They need room to explore."

"Interesting," John said thoughtfully. "And you?"

Sherlock looked at him then.

"Are you a carnivorous pack animal who needs room to hunt and explore?" John asked.

"I tend to be more solitary, but…." Sherlock looked back up the trail. "Even though I've lived alone for much of my adult life, I'm not sure if it's the best for me. I've recently been questioning my decisions along those lines."

They lapsed into silence as they walked along the trail. Soon they were out of the trees, with the river on their left and rolling hills spreading out on their right. The skies were cloudless and blue, and the clean air and warmth of late May filled Sherlock's body with a serene clarity he hadn't felt since he left the hospital.

"I could live out here, in the open hills," Sherlock said. "A man could find peace in a place like this."

"What has gotten into you?" John said. "I would think you would be bored out of your skull in a place like this, without the drama of the city and the intrigue. You wouldn't find it dull?"

"That would depend on what I was doing and who I was with," Sherlock said. He quickly glanced over to John and found him deep in thought, watching the trail in front of him. "I told you I had intentions of retiring to the country."

"No, I remember. Apples," John said and looked up at Sherlock and smiled. He shrugged. "I guess I didn't quite realise you were serious about it. You always talked about it, but it was kind of hard to imagine, you know? You, out here, with nothing to do."

"That's where you're wrong, John. There are many things to occupy the mind out in the natural world. You just need to know where to look."

Sherlock paused again and tried to think of how to phrase his next thought. He decided straight forward might be the best.

"How about you? Have you ever considered leaving the city?"

John swallowed. "You and I talked about that, once, although I guess you don't remember. Yes, there was a time when I thought about opening my own small practice and I probably could do that anywhere, I suppose. But starting a business takes money and I'm not really in the position to take on something like that. Maybe some day."

Sherlock looked ahead again along the trees and smiled. He dampened down the excitement from the thoughts and possibilities that ran through his mind. Maybe someday. It was good enough for him.

"I think that's Shoscombe over there," John said and pointed to an estate with large stables off to the right. "So what's next?"

"Let's take Lizzy over and see what happens, shall we?" Sherlock said and turned down a path towards the stud farm. As they walked along the fence, three thoroughbreds came to investigate, running along the fence line and throwing their heads. They were beautiful and sleek animals, built for speed and agility, and as they approached the farmhouse, the horses turned and ran back into the grass to stop and graze, occasionally looking up at them with their ears alert.

As they walked onto the farm, Sherlock and John saw someone working over near some of the red-and-white stables, and they walked the dog over. It was a young woman who was cleaning out stalls.

"Hello!" Sherlock yelled over to her cheerfully, and she stood with her pitch fork and watched them approach. "We're friends of John Mason's from London, came out to go fishing and thought we'd stop in to say hello. Is he available?"

The woman nodded and pointed towards the end of the stables.

"He's out in the ring with one of the colts," she said and then went back to her mucking.

They walked over to the end of the stables to a corral surrounded by a white fence, and there was Mason with a young male horse. He was standing in the middle of the corral with a helmet on and a protective leather vest, and the colt was running around the outside of the ring with a small racing saddle on his back. As John and Sherlock walked up to the ring to watch between the bars, they saw Mason wave his arms at the horse and shout "Ho!" every so often and make the horse change direction. The horse ran and jumped, bucking slightly, and then after a minute of running around he slowed and stopped close to Mason.

Mason walked up to the horse and began to adjust the saddle, loosening and then tightening the girth on one side and then walking around the horse's head to adjust the other side. Every once in a while he would slap the top of the saddle, and the horse would flicker his ears and flick his tail, and then Mason took the reins and started to lead the horse in a tight circle, first one way and then the other.

After a while of fiddling with the saddle and reins, he stood beside the horse again and began to jump up and down with his hands on the back of the horse. At first, the horse startled and then backed up, but then he seemed to become accustomed to the motion. Then Mason jumped one last time and landed up on the saddle sideways, his full weight on the back of the horse. When the horse flicked its ears but did not otherwise object, Mason slowly inched his way up over and then threw over his leg over and grabbed the reins. He started to walk and then trot the horse around the ring.

Sherlock was transfixed. The balance between the spirit of the horse and the will of the man was fascinating, how they communicated and tested each other without words, coming to terms with the growing relationship built on trust and familiarity. There was always danger and tension there in the relationship, but it was exciting and playful as well. He looked over at John, and John stood with his foot on the bottom rail and his chin resting on his hand, equally fascinated by the training.

They watched for several minutes until Mason finally stopped the colt and hopped off, rubbing his face and walking over to the gate. As he took the horse out of the corral, he finally acknowledged Sherlock and John standing at the edge.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, thanks for coming out," he said.

"That was amazing," John said. "He's got quite a spirit."

"We've got high hopes for this one," Mason said, patting the side of the horses neck. "He was foaled by the same dam who brought us Prince, so he's got potential."

Mason looked to the two of them and then Lizzy.

"I see you've met the Lady's dog."

Sherlock nodded. "I was hoping we might take a stroll and see if we can bump into Lady Beatrice. Do you know how that might come about?"

"Well, I expect them to return shortly. The lady and Sir Robert took the car into town and will be back soon. Perhaps you can catch them."

"We'll take a walk around then, if you don't mind," Sherlock said.

Mason nodded and then walked the colt back to the stable, where he began to take off the tackle and comb him down. John and Sherlock strolled through the stable, looking at the horses. Several minutes later, a car began to come up the drive, and Sherlock saw his chance.

"Come, John, the game is on," he said quietly as they walked briskly out of the stable and towards the car. As it came up, Sherlock reached down and removed Lizzy's lead, and the dog instantly sprang into a run towards the car, barking excitedly. They watched as a man stepped out of the back of the car and looked at the dog, and then he turned as if to prevent the other person from getting out but it was too late. A woman dressed in a shawl with a hat pulled low over her face stepped out of the car, and when the dog came up and sniffed her, Lizzy immediately cowered away, yelping and running back to Sherlock with her tail between her legs.

Sherlock leashed the dog again as the woman quickly went into the house and the man stormed over to Sherlock and John.

"What is the meaning of this?" he yelled as he approached, his coat jacket flapping behind him and his hand shaking in a fist.

"Ah, Sir Robert, I presume," Sherlock smiled brightly and reached out his hand. "It is such a thrill to meet you, sir, truly. The good fellow at The Green Dragon Inn could not stop talking about what an admirable man you are and how generous you had been to part with this lovely dog. My friend and I are just up from London on a fishing trip, and we're huge fans of your horses, so we thought we would stop in to pay our respects."

Sir Robert seemed taken aback as he looked at Sherlock's huge smile and outstretched hand. Some of the bluster seemed to be reduced, but he did not accept Sherlock's hand.

"Well, this is not a good time. My sister is sick and we're not open to visitors," Sir Robert said irritably. "I'm afraid we won't be able to visit with you today."

"Oh!" Sherlock said with exaggerated dismay. "I am so truly sorry to bother you, sir. Of course you must attend to your sister. We will leave you in peace at once and not bother you again. Good day, sir."

Sherlock immediately began to walk back the way they had come, with John trotting behind him. When they were out of earshot, he turned to look back at Sir Robert, who was watching them leave with his hands on his hips. He turned to John and smiled.

"That did not seem like a joyous reunion of a woman and her favourite pet, did it?" Sherlock said.

"No, it certainly did not," John nodded and looked back at Sir Robert. "And he was definitely not happy to see us or the dog, either. Seems like Mason is on to something, eh?"

"Yes, and I think after dinner tonight we should pay a visit to the family crypt, don't you think?"

Sherlock and John exchanged a conspiratorial grin and began the trek back to the Green Dragon Inn.


	11. The Truth in the Family Crypt

John had the giggles again. It was approaching 11 p.m., they were headed back out to Shoscombe Old Place after a truly bizarre dining experience at the inn, and he and Sherlock kept getting lost. They both had headlamps and Sherlock insisted he knew where he was going, but then they would head through some brambles down the wrong trail and now Sherlock was standing in mud up to his knees because he had found the river. Again.

"Yep, there's the river," John said, pointing helpfully and standing on the bank laughing.

"I really don't see what's so funny about this, John," Sherlock said, trying to pull one of his feet out of the mud. "Help me out."

But as soon as Sherlock grabbed John's hand, instead of trying to pull himself out, he pulled John halfway in. John had one foot on the bank and another in the mud, awkwardly straddling the bank.

"You bastard!" John hissed, which then made Sherlock crack into rumbling laughter. They stood there, pulling each other's hands and nearly falling over, for a full minute before Sherlock managed to push John back onto the bank. They eventually got Sherlock out, his feet making loud slurping sounds as they popped out of the mud. They tramped back the way they came, trying to find the right path again, this time with three muddy feet, squish, squish, squish, plop.

This was just par for the course for this evening, as far as John was concerned. It started with Sherlock deciding at dinner that he was going to pretend he remembered the last time they were at the inn and that he and John were still a couple. At first, this thoroughly annoyed John, then it horrified him, but Sherlock was so ridiculous with his absolute cluelessness of what real couples were like that Mr. and Mrs. Barnes were completely baffled and John was soon near hysterics.

"We're really not together any more," John said to the Barnes as the couple sat and visited with them during dinner. "It's a long and complicated story, but —"

"What are you talking about, munchcups, of course we are," Sherlock said with an affectionate smile and then batted his eyelashes — batted! — at John.

"No, Sherlock, we really aren't," John said with his head in his hands. Mrs. Barnes just looked back and forth between them confused. Eventually Sherlock couldn't keep it up any longer and their eyes met and both John and Sherlock devolved into laughter. From then on, Sherlock mostly dropped the whole thing, except every once in a while he'd call John "sugar cube" or "snookums" or something equally ghastly. Eventually even Sherlock couldn't take the atrociousness of the whole thing and started to shudder after each affectionate gesture.

"How awful," he finally said after the Barnes' had left. "Please tell me we were never actually like that."

"God no, Sherlock. I would have killed you. _You_ would have killed you. We would have both been dead within a week."

"Oh thank God," Sherlock said and took a sip of coffee.

And John couldn't help but feel this huge weight lift from him during the evening. It was so good to actually be laughing with Sherlock again that John had started to feel drunk even though they hadn't had a sip of alcohol. It had been years since they had laughed together, and now that John finally understood and accepted what had happened to Sherlock, it was as if the anger was slipping away like water through his fingers. It was nearly impossible to be angry at a Sherlock who could not remember the sins and misdeeds and betrayals of his past, and John found that as his anger lifted, it was as if he was letting go of an immense burden.

It made him lightheaded and giddy, and now they were covered in mud and tromping through the woods on their way to break into somebody's family crypt. He couldn't remember the last time he had had this much fun.

"Ah, this way," Sherlock said as they eventually found what they guessed was the bridle path along the trees. They followed it until they came into the open and could make out Shoscombe off to their right. The lights from the main house were on and the central courtyard between the buildings was well lit.

"We need to get to the other side of the house," Sherlock said in a low voice and then made for the fence of the large pasture between them and their destination.

"Wait! Sherlock!" John whispered loudly and rushed behind him. "I'm sure this fence is electric. And what about the horses?" John said and then looked into the dark field, making out some black lumps that may or may not have been large animals.

"Then I guess we'll have to take our chances," Sherlock said with a devious smile as he turned off his headlamp. John did the same and the world was suddenly plunged into darkness. He could barely make out Sherlock ducking between two slats in the wooden fence, and John followed, trying not to touch anything.

"I'm surprised at you, John," Sherlock said as they began walking across the field. "You don't hesitate to rush into a gunfight but you're squeamish about a few sleeping horses."

"Only because I know what they can do," John answered. "Harry and I used to go riding as children, and they're big animals. It's no fun getting kicked. And I'm not a big fan of electric fences either. I once tried to slide under one when I was about 5, and I grabbed a wire to duck underneath and a burning pain shot through me. I learned that lesson quickly."

Sherlock chuckled. "Little John Watson. Everything's so big and dangerous!"

"Oh shut up."

Sherlock laughed again and they continued walking. As John's eyes adjusted to the blackness, he was suddenly aware of the huge, moonless sky over their heads.

"Oh my God, look at the stars," he said as he stopped, his head tilted back to take in the entire expanse of the sky above them. It looked as though he could count thousands of stars surrounding the soft glow of the Milky Way.

"We're outside the light pollution of London," Sherlock murmured next to him, and John could feel the warmth of Sherlock's body as they stood next to each other looking at the immense night sky. "I've never been one to admire the stars, but I suppose it's hard to ignore just how bright they are when one is standing out in a field."

"The whole universe," John agreed. As they stood there in the eerily still night, a noise on John's left made him look over. One of the large black shapes was slowly moving towards him, the soft clump clump of hooves sounding against the earth. A tall horse came up to John and blew out its nostrils loudly. It sniffed John's jacket, and he reached up to pet the forelock between the horse's ears.

"Heya, fella," he said softly, feeling the velvet nose and then patting the horse's neck. "We're just passing through."

The horse nodded its large head up and down as if in agreement, and then tried to get into John's coat pocket with its dexterous lips. He chuckled and gently pushed the horse's nose away just as he felt Sherlock's hand on his lower back.

"I think we should keep moving," he said quietly, and John could see Sherlock's eye glint with reflective light as he looked towards the house. John gave the horse one last pat and they continued walking, the horse clomping behind them. When they reached the fence on the other side of the pasture, they ducked through and the horse gave a quiet snort and then stood by the fence, watching as John and Sherlock approached the small graveyard on the other side. They could barely make out the headstones and a small building in the center, but soon they had trees between them and the house and Sherlock turned on his headlamp again. The ancient white stones flashed brightly before them with the names of ancestors long dead.

Sherlock turned his headlamp to the small trail that lead through the graveyard, and he kneeled down to examine the ground.

"Look here, John. It looks like Sir Robert has been visiting quite often, and with a friend. There are two different sized footprints here." He stood and walked a little further along until Sherlock leaned down again and pointed. "And look at this. It looks as if the larger pair is walking backwards. You can tell by the way the heels pull."

He stood up and looked at John, his light shining down and partly obscuring his face.

"Now why do you think he would be doing that?" Sherlock asked.

"I dunno, maybe he was backing away from someone? Or… or maybe he and another person were carrying something?"

"Such as a body, for example?" Sherlock said, and the two of them turned and faced the small building in the middle of the graveyard. John took a deep breath and followed Sherlock, careful not to walk on the path and disturb any evidence. They slowly approached the white marble monument with a door between two decorative columns. Sherlock pulled his gloves out of his pocket and put them on, then took out his magnifying glass and began to examine the door.

"Scrape marks on the ground where it's been opened recently. They had to pry the door open because no one had been in here for years before about a week ago. But fortunately for us, they didn't bother to try to relock the door."

Sherlock slowly pushed the door open, and John immediately put his hand to his face.

"Oh yeah, there's something dead in there," John said, and Sherlock's face became more grim. He pushed the door all the way open, and inside were steps leading down. Sherlock stepped in, followed by John, and they carefully stepped down into a small room that was covered in dust. The walls were made of plastered rock, and several old ceramic vases were lined against the far wall. On either side of the small room were two coffins, one wooden on the left and one that was stone on the right. It was clear that the stone coffin had been disturbed, as big hand prints had swept away much of the dust.

Sherlock took a torch out of his pocket and turned it on, setting it in the rock wall so it shined down on the sarcophagus. Then he and John moved down to either side of the sarcophagus lid, grabbed it by the edges and slowly pushed it halfway off until it hit the wall.

Inside was the decomposing body of a middle-aged woman.

"Lady Beatrice, I presume," John said, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket to hold it to his face.

Sherlock immediately started to examine the body.

"What do you think, John?" he said, his face bent down to look closely.

"Judging by the black color of her skin and the blisters, also the protruding eyes and tongue, I would say she's been dead at least a week," John said. He leaned down closer to look at her face, her neck, her nightgown and shoeless feet. "She doesn't show any signs of obvious trauma, although of course it's difficult to tell without doing a full autopsy, but I would guess that she died in those night clothes and they just took her straight out here."

"Yes, she has mud on the back of her left heel, perhaps where they had dropped a foot while bringing her out," Sherlock said from the other end of the coffin. John pulled out his phone and took a few photos, then put on some blue medical gloves and continued to examine the body, testing the skin and looking closely at her hands and face, looking for signs of cause of death. The old habits of examining crime-scene bodies came back quickly, and he opened her mouth and looked at her fingernails, trying to take in any of the tell-tale signs of death through foul play.

After a minute or so John noticed that Sherlock was standing at the end of the coffin unmoving, and John looked over. Sherlock was looking at John, his pensive face glowing in the artificial light.

"What happened, John?"

John started to answer but then stopped, looking at Sherlock's face. Sherlock wasn't looking at the body. He was studying John.

"Uh…" John looked back at the woman in the sarcophagus and then back to Sherlock. "I really can't tell without an autopsy, but…"

Sherlock just knit his eyebrows together.

"... but that's not what you meant, was it."

Sherlock was standing perfectly still, his body tense and erect.

"What happened to make you move out?" Sherlock asked.

John took two steps sideways away from the body and lowered his voice.

"You really want to do this now, Sherlock? We've got a body."

"She's not going anywhere," Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand. "I need to know. What could take you away from this?"

"You're serious. You want to talk about this now?"

Sherlock nodded.

John took a deep breath and walked away from the body. He took off his gloves and leaned against the wood coffin, facing Sherlock and holding his hands together in front of him.

"Ok," he said, trying to figure out where to start. "So you know the story that you told the papers, right? About Moriarty? He reappeared and the two of you plunged right back into the twisted games that you played, just like the good old days. Cat and mouse, cloak and dagger, all that good stuff. So one day, he must be bored and he decides to up the ante and he kidnaps Mary. He takes her to a warehouse and ties her to a chair and…."

John took a deep breath and held it for a second, letting it out slowly. He looked at the floor.

"And he starts sending you texts and little clues. Pictures. The usual. But this time, just to make things more interesting, he starts sending me clues too, taunting us both and luring us in separately. By the time I got to the warehouse, you were already there. But you weren't expecting me, apparently I wasn't supposed to be there, and when you saw me, everything started to go wrong. You moved to Moriarty, he pulled out a gun, he shot Mary, and then he shot me before you finally got to him. I'm not sure what happened after that, but when I woke in the hospital, Mary was dead and you had killed Moriarty."

John folded his arms and then nodded his head again. He looked back at Sherlock, holding his eyes steady.

"At least, that's what everyone thought happened. That's what you told everyone, including me. And I would have thought that for the rest of my life if I hadn't found her phone. About a year later, I was finally going through all of her stuff, getting rid of most of it, sorting through, the usual things one does when letting go. I found her phone and turned it on for the first time and up popped a text. Any guesses as to what it was?"

"John…." Sherlock said and then took a step forward.

"It was from you," John continued. "It was a text with the address of Moriarty's warehouse, and her response back to you: 'OK.' Now, at first I didn't know what to think about that, because God knows, I'm not the great Sherlock Holmes, so I'm a little slow, you know? Not quite as quick as you might have been. It took me a little while to wonder to myself, 'Wait, why would Sherlock text Mary with the address of where she was going to be kidnapped later?' "

John paused and waited to see if Sherlock would say anything. But Sherlock just stood there watching, waiting for John to finish his story.

"I confronted you. I handed you the phone and asked what it was about. I was really hoping that maybe I misunderstood, maybe it was a mistake. But you just sat there looking at the text, and then you said to me, 'Mary and I had a plan, but things went wrong.'

"It turns out that you and my wife, Mary, the mother of my child, the woman I married and wanted to spend the rest of my life with, the two of you decided together to come up with a brilliant plan to take down Moriarty by yourselves. She was going to be the bait, and once she was inside, you were going to rush in and the two of you were going to do some sort of ninja shit and take him out. Apparently, you both decided I didn't need to know about it, that you didn't need me as part of the plan and you could take him out by yourselves."

Finally John stood up from where he was leaning against the coffin and put his hands on the top of his head, pacing back and forth in the small room.

"My wife. And my best friend. That's you, by the way," John said and then pointed at Sherlock. "Decide to carry out a plan behind my back to get her kidnapped by the most deadly psychopath we've ever known. And surprise! It went wrong. Who could have _possibly_ seen that coming? So she ended up dead.

"And the thing is, I might have forgiven you both for it if I had known about it. Who knows? I was never given the chance. Because to cap it off, over the following year, you nursed me back to health and then became my lover and a parent to my daughter and you never thought it important to tell me the truth. The whole time I thought Mary had just been a victim, that you both were victims."

John stopped pacing and dropped his arms, where they hung limply at his sides. He felt numb and cold, remembering the betrayal and heartbreak from three years ago.

"I couldn't believe that the two of you would do that to me, and then that you would lie to me about it for a year. It made me doubt everything we had together. I was convinced that it was all your fault, that you had gotten her killed, that it was all your plan. I couldn't forgive you. It was just like your fall from Bart's all over again, and I couldn't believe that you would lie to me in such a monumental way for a second time."

As John's voice faded, Sherlock took another step forward.

"John," he said, "I'm sorry. I don't know why we decided that or what happened, but it couldn't have been a total surprise to you, knowing what you did about Mary and Sherrinford. You must have known that she was trained for exactly that sort of operation."

John looked at Sherlock with confusion.

"What does this have to do with Sherri?"

"No. Not _your_ Sherrinford. _My_ Sherrinford."

John just shook his head.

"Sherrinford, my brother," Sherlock said. "Who was killed."

John just blinked.

"I don't know what you're talking about," John said, his hands on his hips and his face becoming harder with each breath. "Your brother? Who was killed? You're not making any sense."

Sherlock looked at him closer and then comprehension dawned over his face. "Oh," he said, and then his face opened up in surprise and his hands came up. "_Oh_! You don't know! But how can you not know? You must have read her files."

"Mary's files? No, she gave me a pen drive, but I didn't read it. I burned it in the fireplace at your parent's house."

"But I have the files in my Internet archive…."

John just shook his head and laughed humourlessly.

"I see," he said. "I should have known. You lifted them off me, didn't you? You stole the drive and copied the files, even though they were meant for me. Unbelievable. All this time you knew Mary's past and I didn't."

"John, why didn't you read the files?"

"Because she told me that if I did," John said, suddenly intense and pointing his finger at Sherlock and breathing hard, "I wouldn't love her anymore, and I desperately wanted to love her, Sherlock. She was the mother of my child," he said, his voice cracking.

"John," Sherlock said and took the final few steps to stand in front of John. "I can see why you wouldn't want to know the truth, if that's what Mary told you. But if you and I are going to have any sort of relationship at all, anything at all, we cannot keep secrets from one another any more. I can't do it."

He took John by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes.

"I know I have done many unforgivable things to you, but if we are to move forward you must make a choice. Do you want the truth or don't you?"

"I wouldn't mind it," said a deep voice from the top of the stairs, and John and Sherlock turned and immediately put their hands in the air. There, holding a shotgun in both hands, was Sir Robert.

"You can start by telling me what you're doing with the body of my dead sister."


End file.
